King Javan’s Year

by Katherine Kurtz

  “All right, that’s what I was expecting,” he said. “Now I think it’s time we resolved the matter of his family. Ursin, your wife is human, is she not?”

  Ursin lifted his head in dull incomprehension, then nodded yes.

  “And what about your son?”

  He watched Ursin’s reaction closely, for he remembered that Tavis had identified the man as a “failed Healer.” Javan did not know precisely what that meant, but it certainly meant that Ursin had been fairly well trained and ought to have been able to tell whether his own son was Deryni. Javan hated putting him on the spot this way, but there was no way that Hubert and Paulin were even going to consider what he had in mind, without knowing for certain about Ursin’s son.

  “What’s your son’s name, Ursin?” he asked quietly.

  Even drugged, Ursin obviously guessed where at least a part of this conversation was headed—and that there was nothing he could do to stop it.

  “His name is—C-Carrollan, Sire,” Ursin managed to whisper. “He is named for his grandsire.”

  “And do you know whether he’s Deryni?” Javan asked. “Ursin, I know you’ve had a good deal of training. I’m sure you’ve evaded this question before, to protect him, but I have to know. If Father Lior tests the lad with merasha, is he going to react as a Deryni?”

  Ursin’s head bowed, shoulders slumping in dejection, and then he slowly nodded. His apparent betrayal by the new king swept away any remaining resistance he might have offered.

  “He was—only a baby when—when last I saw him, Sire. But the signs were there. I was to have been a Healer, but the—gift failed in me. I lacked the ability to focus it properly. I—had hoped it might be perfected in my son. But now I wish I had passed on no part of my powers at all.”

  His sob held both fear and sorrow as his head sank lower on his chest, and Javan had to strain to hear his next words.

  “He would not have been much of a Deryni,” he murmured. “And now—” He sighed and seemed to wilt even more. “Now, it seems less and less likely that he will even grow to manhood …”

  As the distraught voice trailed off, Javan turned to Charlan, waiting expectantly in the doorway.

  “Fetch Master Oriel,” the king said. “And have him bring his medical kit.”

  As Charlan bowed and withdrew, Hubert regarded Javan suspiciously, and Paulin looked decidedly indignant.

  “I had assumed that Father Lior would test the child,” Paulin said.

  “Oriel can give the lad a lighter dose of merasha than can be administered with Lior’s Deryni pricker,” Javan replied. “The lad’s only four or so. An adult dose could kill him.”

  “And if he doesn’t react?” Paulin said. “Oriel could substitute something else, you know, once he learns what you intend. He’s Deryni. There’s nothing he might not do, to protect one of his own kind.”

  Javan shot the Vicar General a withering look. “The boy’s father has admitted that he believes his son to be Deryni! That means he’ll react. If he doesn’t, I’ll—I’ll have Oriel drink from the same cup as the boy, to prove that it was indeed merasha. Will that satisfy you?”

  Grudgingly Hubert and Paulin agreed, Lior standing silent and sullen, not daring to contradict his superiors. When Oriel arrived and was told what Javan wished him to do, his agreement was even more grudging. The appalled and drug-dulled Ursin listened in despair, knowing that his cooperation had committed his son to face a dreaded trial that could only end in his condemnation and aware that there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop it.

  Numbly he held out his wrists for the shackles that Paulin required. It placed him even more at their mercy, but at least it appeared he was to be permitted to be present when his son’s fate was decided. That softened the betrayal a little.

  It was even a victory of sorts. For more than three years, Ursin had not been out of his quarters save for the times they re-tested him with merasha. On those occasions, he was drugged and then shackled before being moved to another room nearby, exactly like the one he had left.

  Javan caught the memory as he came to check Ursin’s shackles after the warder snapped them in place. For three long years, Ursin had endured this treatment on a regular basis, lent strength to carry on only by the hope that his son might be spared even a little longer—though he had never known for certain whether the boy was even still alive. After a few hours, though still groggy, he was always dosed again before being brought back to his own quarters, which had been cleaned during his absence. Usually, but not always, he made it back to his own bed before passing out from the second dose added to the first.

  Javan glanced at the room as they passed it now, heading on along the corridor and around a bend at the end, where the warder bent to another heavy lock with his great ring of keys. Now radiating from Ursin’s mind was another memory of the room they had passed. Cautious queries over a three-year period had confirmed it to be the former lodging of Declan Carmody’s wife and two young sons, whom Ursin—and Javan—had seen strangled before the entire Court, that awful day that Declan himself had been horribly tortured and killed.

  A fragment of Ursin’s drug-fogged memory of that day triggered unwelcome and clearer recall in Javan’s mind—images of the once-proud Declan stretched spread-eagled before the throne at the regents’ command, writhing in his own blood, his screams only gradually growing weaker as the executioners dragged his entrails from his belly and dragged out his death.

  The snick of the lock broke the flow of awful memories, and Javan shook himself free of them to gaze beyond Hubert and Paulin as the door swung inward.

  The woman sitting in the barred window should have been pretty still—she could not be more than twenty-five or so—but three years of confinement had dulled whatever brightness she once might have possessed to a premature aging. She rose as the door opened, her shoulders slightly stooped as she stood silhouetted against the grey of the afternoon, her russet gown hanging baggy and shapeless around her thin figure. Her hair was bound under a wimple of the same sort of rusty-black wool as Ursin’s robe, so Javan could not see what color it was, but the besmocked child kneeling behind her in the window, peering at a pair of grey-striped pigeons on the outside sill, had a tousled shock of dark hair that glinted reddish in the waning light.

  In that instant, the woman saw Ursin standing behind Hubert and Paulin. One hand went to her throat as her eyes widened. Taking charge of the situation, Javan stepped alongside Paulin and spoke.

  “I think we’ll let Ursin tell his wife what’s planned,” he said quietly, but in a tone that brooked no defiance, setting a hand on Ursin’s bicep and propelling him toward the woman before Paulin could object. “There’s nothing either of them can do that would present a danger. But don’t take too long, Ursin. We wouldn’t want anyone getting more nervous than they already are. Oriel, prepare to do what you came for.”

  As Oriel moved briskly into the room and set down his Healer’s satchel on the single table, Paulin and Hubert shuffled uneasily apart. Ursin moved like a man in a trance, his eyes locked on the woman’s, hers on his. Tears were now glittering in her eyes—and in his. The boy had stopped playing, his light eyes flicking uncertainly from his mother, to the men in the doorway, to the bearded and manacled stranger now approaching who made his mother cry.

  Javan watched as the two came together, casting out for any trace of Deryni interaction between them, but there was none. He could sense rudimentary shields in the boy, however. As Ursin raised manacled hands to encircle his weeping wife, he moved with her farther into the window embrasure, urgent whispers already trying to explain what was happening. Javan went over to the table where Oriel was carefully measuring tawny drops of merasha into a cup he had half filled with water from a roughly glazed pitcher.

  “Can you have something ready to cancel out some of the effects of that?” he said in a low voice, jerking his chin at the cup. “We already know he’s going to react.”

  Oriel nodded toward anot
her cup already containing a layer of fine white powder in the bottom. “I’m one step ahead of you, Sire,” he murmured. “Would you fill that about halfway with water?”

  “What are you doing?” Father Lior asked, pushing his way between them. “What is that?”

  “An anticonvulsant. It’s also a strong sedative,” Oriel replied. “We already know the boy’s Deryni. At least his father says he is. I’ve never given merasha to a child this young, but all the texts warn about the effects being amplified, because absolutely no resistance has been developed this early. Once everyone is satisfied that he reacts as expected, I intend to put him under—unless you have some overweening desire to see a child convulse and possibly die right before your eyes.”

  Lior picked up the discarded packet that had contained the powder, read the notations penned on the parchment, then dropped it on the table beside the cup. Even he knew that Oriel could have had no opportunity to prepare for treachery.

  “Very well. Proceed when you’re ready.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Therefore let us lie in wait for the righteous, because he is not for our turn, and he is clean contrary to our doings.

  —Wisdom of Solomon 2:12

  The woman froze as Oriel turned toward her son, suddenly comprehending what they intended.

  “Please, no,” she whispered, ducking out of her husband’s arms and gathering the boy to her, pale eyes pleading. “Ursin, don’t let them …”

  Ursin only closed his eyes despairingly, slowly shaking his head. Even heavily sedated, he knew exactly what was happening and why, and that only cooperation would minimize the terror of what must occur—the fear even now communicating itself to the boy cowering behind his mother’s skirts, tearful and anxious as he shifted his gaze from the stranger who was his father to the strangers approaching.

  “My darling, we can’t stop them. You know that,” Ursin said softly. “Let Master Oriel do what he has to do. I promise you, it’s better this way. The dose is low. There’s a sedative waiting. It’s the boy’s best chance. Would I risk my only son if I did not believe that?”

  She was not listening. Ursin knew she was not listening—and what the approaching Oriel proposed to do about it. As the Healer came almost within touching distance, Ursin seized his wife’s wrists and turned her back to Oriel, nodding acquiescence as the Healer’s hands came up to clasp either side of her head from behind. Resistance went out of her instantly, her eyelids fluttering and then closing.

  “It will be least upsetting if she helps reassure the boy,” Oriel said, looking past her at Ursin.

  Bleakly Ursin nodded, caressing her hands in his as Oriel set the command. When the Healer’s hands dropped away, she slowly opened her eyes and turned toward where her son had fled to huddle fearfully in the farthest corner of the window embrasure. Ursin stayed where he was, weaving slightly on his feet and setting a shoulder against the wall to steady himself.

  “Why, Carrollan, my love, what foolishness is this,” she chided gently, “to weep and hide when your papa comes to see you?”

  As the boy blinked up at her, letting her move in to sit beside him, Oriel turned to take the first cup from Lior, warning Javan off with a glance.

  “And here is Master Oriel, your papa’s friend, come to bring you something nice to drink,” she went on, not looking at Oriel as she held out her hand. “It’s nice—you see?” She sipped from the cup, then offered it to him. “Drink it down like a good boy now, and show Papa how big and brave you’ve grown.”

  Fearful but trusting, the boy tasted what was in the cup, then began drinking. Each swallow seemed loud in the silence of the room. Ursin had sunk down to sit on the edge of the window embrasure, turning his face away.

  “There’s my brave boy,” his wife whispered when the cup was empty and the boy gave it back to her, smiling. “Papa, are you not proud of your son, who has drunk down the medicine so bravely?”

  Ursin looked up again at that, dull despair giving him the appearance of a man of twice his years. Little Carrollan was searching both their faces, puzzled by his mother’s calm and his father’s apparent sadness. But then an odd, frightened look came across his face.

  “Mummy?” he whispered, just before he reeled, eyes wide and frightened, and then crumpled across her lap.

  In a matter of seconds, his breathing shifted abruptly to irregular gasps that shook his entire body, and instead of subsiding, he began to shudder.

  “Very well, you have your answer,” Oriel said, staying Ursin with a raised hand and a shake of his head when he would have come to comfort his son. The mother merely sat back with eyes closed. “May I give him the other cup now?”

  “Not yet.” Lior pushed past Oriel and bent to turn the boy’s face to the light. The pupils were wide and fixed, the boy’s skin clammy, his breathing rapid and irregular. Even to the uninitiated, there could be little doubt that young Carrollan was exhibiting all the classic symptoms of a Deryni reacting to merasha.

  “Let me give him the other cup, Father. Please,” Oriel said.

  “I’m not sure,” Lior replied, though the boy was beginning to twitch, his breathing now coming in gasps.

  “Lior, he’s about to go into convulsions!” Oriel snapped. “For God’s sake, let me give him the other medication. He’s just a boy.”

  As he turned his entreaty on the others—Ursin was looking more and more alarmed—Javan seized the initiative and the second cup, carrying the latter up into the embrasure with Oriel.

  “Here, Oriel. Give him this. I think everyone’s seen enough. And I think I see a possible solution to this problem, now that we know what we’re dealing with. Lior, come down with the rest of us.”

  As Javan took the priest’s arm and physically propelled him down out of the embrasure to stand before Hubert and Paulin, Lior murmured, “This is highly irregular—”

  “It’s irregular to keep harmless folk imprisoned for no good reason!” Javan retorted, releasing Lior’s arm. “And yes, we now know that young Carrollan is not harmless—or might not be, once he’s grown. But now that we know that, I think I see a better way of dealing with this—one that should satisfy even the most scrupulous among you.”

  Behind him, Oriel had enlisted Ursin’s assistance to get the contents of the second cup down young Carrollan’s throat, and the boy was now slumped unconscious in the Healer’s arms, his father tenderly caressing a limp little hand. Lior glanced back at them, clearly still suspicious, but Hubert recalled his attention with a cough.

  “Enough, Father.”

  “But the Deryni are treacherous,” Lior muttered.

  “Yes, four-year-olds are treacherous,” Javan said breezily, “but not to the point that they should frighten grown men. Archbishop, I have a proposition for you,” he said, moving Hubert and Paulin back into the room, farther from the embrasure. “Please don’t say no until you’ve heard me out. Oriel, stay with your patients, please.”

  He could feel the suspicion of the clerics surrounding him as he moved into their midst, but also the support of his own people, still watching from the doorway.

  “Just what is it you have in mind, Sire?” Hubert asked.

  “Simply this: a second half to the experiment you’ve been carrying out with Ursin, who used to be Deryni but has been free of the taint for more than three years now. It was an experiment, wasn’t it, when you sent him down to Master Revan?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d like to extend the experiment, but in a more controlled manner.”

  “Go on,” Hubert said, clearly suspicious.

  “I’d like to take Ursin’s wife and son to Valoret—to present themselves to Master Revan, the way Ursin did. The boy may be Deryni, but he has no knowledge of what he is, absolutely no training, and no hope of getting any. Let Revan cleanse him. If it works as well for him as it did for his father, he won’t be Deryni anymore either. And you’ve condemned Ursin’s wife for marrying a Deryni and bearing him a child—let her seek p
urification at Revan’s hands as well.”

  “And what after that?” Paulin asked. “You surely don’t propose that they merely be released—especially not the boy.”

  “Well, you could let his mother enter a convent,” Javan said, “though there’s no reason she couldn’t be set free. And the boy could—could be given to a monastery as an oblate, if you’re determined to maintain some control over him. But none of them would have to live in captivity any longer. You don’t need them to guarantee Ursin’s obedience. For that matter, he could be sent to a monastery as well. I believe he reads and writes. Can’t the abbeys always use another competent scribe?”

  For a full ten heartbeats, not a sound stirred the silence in the little room. Javan could sense Ursin’s shock and prayed that he would go along.

  “An interesting proposition,” Hubert admitted grudgingly, after cautious reflection. “The question of Master Revan does intrigue me still. Before, there was not adequate time for preparation. What you propose could be controlled. It also would be an opportunity to test Revan and his disciples—to determine, once and for all, whether what they do is valid. I still am not wholly convinced that there is not Deryni subterfuge at work there.”

  “You still believe that?” Javan said, contempt tinging his voice. He sighed and shook his head, then looked again at Hubert.

  “Very well, Archbishop. I have no objection if you make it a test for Revan and his folk as well. My concern is for the lady and her son. Will you allow them to go to Master Revan?”

  Hubert glanced at Paulin, then inclined his head. “I will consider it. Your proposal is—interesting.”

  “And Ursin?”

  Hubert glanced askance at the captive, who had been trying not to look as if he had been listening. “Do you read and write, Ursin?”

  Bewildered, Ursin gave a careful nod.

  “Very well.” Hubert clasped his fat hands behind him and strode closer to the embrasure where Ursin sat. “I shall ask you this once and once only. Knowing what fate is proposed for your family—which is far better than you could have hoped for, without his Highness’ bold championing—is it your desire to withdraw from the world and enter the religious life as a lay brother, where you might lead a useful existence and perhaps gain God’s forgiveness for what you have been?”