Blearily Ursin stared at the archbishop. With no prior call to a religious vocation, the prospect could hardly be very attractive in a general sense, but after more than three years of virtual solitary confinement, even a cloistered, celibate existence must have its appeal. Javan knew he was gambling with Ursin’s life, for all too many fatal accidents might await an ex-Deryni, once beyond the king’s immediate scrutiny; but Javan did not intend that Ursin should stay in the cloister forever. The chances of arranging his escape from a monastic setting were far better than for getting him out of Rhemuth Castle any other way—if he could stay alive long enough to be rescued. After all, determined rescuers had liberated Javan’s father from a monastery.
“I—think such a life might bring me great comfort, your Grace,” Ursin finally said, as Javan nearly held his breath. “These past years, I have betimes led something of a contemplative life, such as I have been able, but the chance to do useful work again would be a great gift.”
He averted his eyes, as was seemly for a Deryni in captivity, and Hubert nodded, a prim smile on the rosebud lips.
“I trust that your gratitude will extend to exemplary behavior,” he said. “Very well. As a favor to his Highness, I shall select a suitable religious establishment and recommend to its abbot that you be admitted as a lay brother, there to spend the rest of your natural days in penance, contemplation, and useful work. With time, I would hope that you might come to be accepted as a productive and welcome member of the community. However, there are certain conditions.”
As Javan braced himself for the conditions, Hubert continued. “You will submit to all the regular disciplines of the monastic life, as determined by your abbot and chapter and the Rule of your Order. Because of your unique status, I shall give your abbot absolute authority of life and death, but if you are obedient and humble, you will be dealt with fairly. And of course, you will continue to be tested regularly with merasha. Are you willing to accept these conditions?”
Dully Ursin turned his gaze to his unconscious son, to his wife, then bowed his head. The movement stirred the chains on his manacles, underlining his helplessness to decline the offer.
“I accept the conditions, your Grace,” he whispered. “I can do none other. And I pray God have mercy on my wife and son, for I can do nothing more to help them. God’s will be done.”
“Amen to that!” Paulin said.
“Amen,” Hubert repeated lightly. “I will not suggest that you might discover a true religious vocation, for we now begin to believe that those of your race are not capable of genuine religious devotion, but you might find usefulness and expiation of your sins.”
But neither he nor Paulin would allow Ursin further grace to bid good-bye to his family. With an impatient jerk of his chin, Hubert bade Lior get the wretched Ursin on his feet, chivvying him toward the door.
One last glance over his shoulder Ursin gained, before being marched back down the corridor by Lior and a guard toward his own quarters—though at least he was not drugged again, as had been the usual pattern in the past. Oriel, when they had gone, turned his attention back briefly to Ursin’s family, gently depositing the unconscious boy in his little bed set against one wall, then bidding the lady to her bed as well, where he used his powers to send her mercifully to sleep. Outside the chamber, once the door was locked, he faded into the background with Charlan and Guiscard as Javan rounded on Hubert and Paulin.
“I should like to pursue this matter as soon as possible,” he said. “’Tis said that Master Revan winters in the hills above Valoret, emerging in time for Easter. I shall send riders north as soon as the first thaws begin, to seek him out.”
“Aye, but first things first, Sire,” Hubert murmured. “Master Ursin has asked for a trial of the religious life. Had your Highness any particular establishment in mind?”
“I thought to leave that decision in your capable hands, Archbishop,” Javan said neutrally. “Your Grace knows best where an extra scribe’s talents might best be employed.”
“Hmmm, yes. Not having worked as a scribe before, however, I expect that Master Ursin will require formal training in that regard. There is also the matter of suitable spiritual direction for a Deryni.” He glanced at Paulin, then back at the king.
“I think, perhaps—yes, the abbey at Ramos. Your Highness will recall it fondly, I hope. Granted, the discipline is exacting, but I firmly believe that proper discipline is an essential foundation for sound spiritual formation. He can be taken there when we send his family north to seek out Master Revan—unless your Highness wished it sooner?”
“No, that’s fine,” Javan murmured. “I thank your Grace for this demonstration of pastoral concern, even for your Deryni flock. I pray that Master Ursin may prove worthy of this opportunity to redeem himself in God’s eyes as well as with the Church.”
Javan worried about the archbishop’s choice for Ursin as he made his way back to his apartments with Charlan and Guiscard, and wondered whether he was merely delivering up Ursin to a more speedy death. The discipline at Ramos was strict, and a confessor with a Deryni in his hands would have almost unlimited authority to impose whatever penances he felt necessary to save a penitent’s soul.
Rigorous fasts and frequent scourging were probably the least that Ursin could expect. And as a vehicle for intimidation, all the more sinister for being couched in the trappings of pious concern, minution probably had no peer. Javan thought he recalled that the Rule did not require that lay brethren submit to minution—but ask Father Faelan whether it had made any difference that the Rule also said that even professed brethren might only be required to submit once. But if Ursin could survive long enough to be gotten out, the risks were worth it.
In his quarters, with Etienne joining Guiscard and Charlan, he outlined what he had in mind, both for Ursin and for Ursin’s wife and son. Guiscard seemed mostly overwhelmed by the scope of the plan, but Etienne only nodded approvingly.
“It’s daring; it’s audacious, but it just might work—if he can stay alive long enough, as you say. It will be a delicate balancing act, though—to leave him in long enough to fall into the routine, to convince them he’s not a threat, long enough that the coincidence of his release won’t reflect back on you, Sire—but not long enough for them to decide it’s time to rid themselves of one inconvenient ex-Deryni.”
“That’s the part that worries me, too,” Guiscard agreed. “Hubert said that Ursin’s abbot would literally have the power of life and death over him, but killing doesn’t have to be anything overt. They could keep him in solitary confinement and cut his rations so that he slowly starved to death; fasting is a time-honored means of monastic discipline. They could even overdo this minution you’ve spoken of, without actually bleeding him to death—just take a bit more than normal over a long period of time, never letting him quite recover before bleeding him again, until he finally just faded away.”
“I thought that even among the Custodes, bleeding was an optional discipline, after the first time,” Etienne said. “A kindness to relieve the pressures of living close together and to keep tempers low.”
“For laymen, they’re not even supposed to be able to require it once,” Javan said. “But where Deryni are concerned, even former Deryni, the Rule and the rules are very flexible.”
“So I gather,” Etienne replied. “And all of this is before even thinking about trumped-up charges or even Custodes whim that could lead him straight to the stake.” He shook his head. “Oh, you may not have done him any great favor, Sire.”
“Given the choice, I think he’d rather have the chance at freedom, even if he doesn’t yet realize that’s what it is,” Javan said quietly. “I don’t plan to leave him there indefinitely. Once his wife and son are safe—”
“Best not hinge your plans for him on their safety, Sire,” Etienne said. “There are other Deryni still captive here, whose safety could be put in jeopardy if suspicion is raised. Unlike Ursin, who was married to a human, Oriel’s wife and
daughter are Deryni, and Sitric’s mother and sister likewise.”
Javan nodded. “I’m aware of that. Don’t worry. I don’t plan to move too fast.” He grimaced. “But you and Guiscard had better get moving. The sooner Joram knows what I’ve done, the sooner we can move things on.”
Others, meanwhile, wondered at what Javan had set in motion.
“Why does he want Ursin out of here?” Hubert was saying, both hands supporting his multiple chins as he leaned on the table across from Paulin and Albertus. “He knows that puts the man in our absolute control, to do away with whenever it suits us—unless Ursin isn’t really as helpless as he appears. And this business about the woman and the boy—”
“Fortunately, we have several months before action becomes necessary in either regard,” Paulin said, drumming his fingers on his chair arm. “Right now, I’m far more concerned about Master Oriel. I don’t know whether he knew in advance what Javan planned, but I do believe that the good Healer is becoming a decided irritant rather than a mere aggravation.”
Hubert looked at him sharply, though he did not lift his head from his hands. “He’s the only Healer still accessible to us,” he pointed out. “Think carefully before you consider eliminating him. You’ve seen those inefficient poseurs who masquerade as court physicians.”
“Yes, but I begin to wonder if we might be better off to take our chances with conventional medicine, rather than be subject to the whim of a Deryni. I warned you that the usefulness of our collaborators was coming to an end, Hubert. I don’t think you believed me. Oriel gives the king an edge I’d prefer he didn’t have, especially in light of what else we begin to suspect about him. If there’s to be merasha testing, I want one of my people to do it. And if there’s to be Truth-Reading at court, I want it to be my Truth-Readers or none at all.”
“Well, we do have the offer of Sitric’s services. Rhun has been most generous in that regard. And then there’s your Master Dimitri.”
“Yes, and even Rhun has been quite candid in stating that the day may be coming when even his own Deryni will become more trouble than he’s worth,” Paulin replied, ignoring the comment about Dimitri. “No,” he went on, clasping his hands behind his head and leaning back in his chair to gaze up at the ceiling, “I do believe that Master Oriel has about outlived his usefulness. And I think that Sitric may be just the man to take care of the problem for us.”
It was several weeks before Sitric found the opportunity he had been ordered to watch for. The Princess Michaela’s pregnancy had now become a known fact at Court, and Oriel was just returning from his regular weekly visit to check on her progress, accompanied as usual by the knight who was his bodyguard.
Sitric had recruited his own bodyguards in the past few days, for he knew he could not hope to overcome Sir Gavin, subdue Oriel, and rip his mind as ordered, without help on the physical level. The mind-ripping he must do for himself, but human sword fodder could answer for the first and possibly the second requirements.
He had his own men waiting along the route he knew Oriel and Gavin would take to return to quarters—two ready to follow them into the stairwell and cut off retreat and the other three waiting with him in the first landing, all in Haldane livery. He had carefully selected them from the king’s own garrison and bound all five to do his bidding, setting in place unshakable conviction that they were thwarting an attempt on Sir Gavin’s part to assassinate the king’s Deryni. One of them, if he lived, would even remember overhearing Gavin’s boast to another knight, whose name he conveniently did not know, that Deryni still asserted altogether too much influence at Court—and Gavin was going to do something about it.
What none of them would remember was that Sitric had further bade them dress the blades of their swords with merasha, so that the slightest cut to Oriel would render him incapable of using his powers to defend himself or his accompanying knight. And multiple wounds to either man, even slight ones, would contribute to a fatal merasha overdose. Sitric had treated a dagger for himself as well, and kept it sheathed as he waited for his intended victims’ approach. He could hear their voices as they came up the stairwell, easy banter that reflected no suspicion that they were climbing into a trap.
What Sitric had not reckoned on was that the king would change his plans that morning and decide to take a newly arrived census report up to his quarters to read before lunch, rather than braving the blustery March morning for his accustomed early ride. Charlan and Guiscard were with him as he headed up the back stair, Charlan in the lead, when sudden scuffling and an anguished mental cry from several floors up spurred all three men into an alarmed scramble upward.
Sir Gavin had acquitted himself well before he fell. One body was crumpled in the stairwell just before they reached the landing where swordplay was continuing, and another man sat wheezing against the wall opposite, blood bubbling from his lips and seeping between the gloved fingers clutched to his chest, a smear of blood on the wall showing where he had slid down it. To Javan’s astonishment, both men wore his livery.
Gavin himself lay sprawled facedown in a spreading pool of his own blood, his hand still twitching feebly around the hilt of a broken sword, while beyond him a third man in Haldane livery attempted to fight off two more men, one with a sword and the other with a dagger he had just slashed across the upraised hands of yet another man in a tunic and mantle of dull green. Another man was on the ground behind them.
The green-clad man cried out. In the dim light of the stair landing, it was just possible for Javan to see that it was Oriel, his Deryni aura flaring and then wavering as his attacker turned to point the dagger at him, directing a stream of orangy light between his victim’s eyes. And the attacker—
“Sitric, no!” Javan shouted.
Charlan and Guiscard were already launching themselves across the landing, skidding in Gavin’s blood, swords ready to strike. Javan was following right behind, the Haldane sword in his gloved fist, desperate to get to Oriel. Snarling, Sitric broke off his attack and loosed a fiery ball of energy at Charlan.
Not even thinking of the consequences, Guiscard struck Charlan aside with the flat of his blade and launched a counterspell, white light swelling from his hand like a silvery morning glory to deflect the ball and engulf it. In the confusion, with Javan moving in right behind Guiscard, Sitric became convinced that the defense had come from the king.
“You!” he screamed, pointing at Javan with the dagger in his hand and loosing another attack.
CHAPTER FORTY
A proud look, a lying tongue, and hands that shed innocent blood.
—Proverbs 6:17
Instinctively Javan ducked, his free hand upflung and the Haldane sword raised in defense, projecting a protective veil between the two that swallowed up the ball of fire in a crimson flash. Not waiting to find out what else Javan could do, Sitric spun on his heel and bolted for the corridor beyond. In the same moment, Guiscard bowled over both men still fighting over the fallen Gavin and shifted his psychic focus from defense to offense, gathering his powers to stop the fleeing Sitric. In that instant, Javan realized what he intended and reached out to meld his powers with those of Guiscard.
The form of the spell came unbidden, and its power caught Sitric before he had gone a dozen steps. He screamed as he fell, engulfed in a sheet of flames that left of him only a scorched, twitching corpse. In the sudden silence that followed, Javan could hear footsteps pounding up the stairs from the other end of the corridor, and gestured with his sword toward the men sprawled around Gavin, the one leaning against the wall. And Oriel—
Make certain nobody remembers anything! Javan sent to Guiscard, at the same time scrambling over to Oriel to check his condition.
The Healer was doubled over on his knees, his slashed palms cupped and crossed on his breast. Another thin cut on one cheek trickled a thin line of blood down his neck, but otherwise he seemed untouched—except for the chaos emanating from his mind.
“Merasha!” Javan warned, glancing
around wildly. “It must be on the swords. Charlan, come and get Oriel on his feet. Make him walk. Don’t let him pass out on us. I don’t know how much he’s got in him. Guards!” he shouted at the approaching Haldane men. “Somebody get a couple of battle surgeons! And, dear God, Gavin!”
As he moved quickly back to the fallen knight’s side, he dropped to his knees in the pool of Gavin’s blood and laid down his sword, turning the young knight to raise up his shoulders and hold him in his arms. Others were crowding onto the landing now—more of his men, several taking charge of Oriel—but Javan paid them only vague notice, though he was aware of Charlan moving in to guard his back.
“Gavin, they’re fetching a surgeon. Just hang on. How did this happen?” he whispered, clamping a gloved hand across one particularly ragged gash in the young knight’s chest and trying to hold the life in—though there were at least three other wounds equally serious.
Gavin rallied a little at the familiar voice and opened his eyes, seeming to draw a little strength from the royal presence.
“I don’t understand,” he managed to whisper. “They were our own men. We were coming back from your brother’s apartments, and they just—attacked us.” He coughed weakly and brought up blood, and Javan glanced around futilely. Even were Oriel not incapacitated—and even he might die, if there was too much merasha in his system—Javan doubted that even a Healer could save the man in his arms.
“I—tried to defend him, my prince,” Gavin whispered, though the voice was weaker. “I think I—took out two before they got me.”
King Javan’s Year Page 53