King Javan’s Year

by Katherine Kurtz

  “Three,” Javan whispered. “And you did all any man could ask.”

  Gavin shuddered and closed his eyes briefly, then looked up at Javan again. “Is it—getting darker in here, Sire? I—can’t seem to see very well …”

  “Oh, God, Gavin, I am so sorry,” Javan breathed, bowing his head briefly to hug his face to the dying man’s shoulder.

  “I am—proud to have served my king,” Gavin whispered. He winced and drew a deep, bubbling breath. “A sword, my liege. Give me a cross to hold.”

  Tears streaming down his face, Javan groped blindly for the sword he had cast down as he knelt. It was slippery with Gavin’s blood, and he tried to wipe off the hilt on the side of his tunic before giving it into Gavin’s hands.

  “A Haldane sword for a Haldane champion,” he whispered, helping him bring the cross-hilt to his lips to kiss the sacred relic enclosed within. “And a cross of glory for one who goes faithful and true to stand before the throne of the King we both serve. May He gather you to His bosom, Gavin. May you find peace in the service of a higher Lord.”

  Gavin found strength to breathe a final “Amen,” but in that moment Javan felt the soul slip past. He held the dead man tightly for a moment, shaking his bowed head and rocking back and forth.

  Gradually the sounds around him intruded on his grief, and he looked up to see black mantles and crimson, surrounding him in a sea of booted feet. Charlan was still standing over him, Guiscard at his other side, leaning wearily on his sword. A battle surgeon in Sir Robear’s livery was crouched beside a moaning and groggy-looking Oriel, examining his hands. Another in Custodes habit was standing at Gavin’s feet, a medical satchel clutched in both hands, looking genuinely helpless.

  “Somebody tell that other surgeon to get Oriel on his feet and make him walk,” Javan said, laying Gavin’s body down and letting Charlan help him to his feet. “Don’t let him pass out. He’s probably got a merasha overdose. There was merasha on Sitric’s blade. And everybody be careful of the swords; they may have been treated, too.”

  He was nearly as covered with blood as Gavin, and he let his gaze drift numbly over the scene. Rhun was out in the corridor with several of his men, inspecting Sitric’s body, and the two remaining Haldane men from the fracas were both standing dazedly under guard of Albertus and several Custodes knights, hands bound. A Custodes priest was giving the Last Rites to the other man, slumped against the wall, who had expired.

  “Well, that’s very convenient,” Rhun said, coming back into the landing to confront the king, glaring at Oriel. “He’s killed the only other Deryni at Court. My Deryni. Leaves you in an enviable position, doesn’t it, Sire?”

  Javan looked sharply at Rhun, though he was immensely relieved that Rhun apparently accepted that Oriel had done it.

  “Actually,” he said, “it rather appears that your Deryni was trying to kill my Deryni. Did you put him up to this?”

  “Certainly not!” Rhun replied. And he was telling the truth.

  That put an interesting slant on the incident. Javan could understand why the opposition would want Oriel dead—and that clearly had been Sitric’s objective. But who would dare to give Sitric such orders without asking Rhun first?

  “Well, I intend to hear Master Oriel’s story before I make any judgments,” Javan said, glancing back at the Healer, who was having something poured down his throat by Robear’s battle surgeon. “What is that, Master Surgeon?”

  “Stimulant, Sire, to counter the sedative effect of the merasha. It means he’s going to have to weather the disruption part of it pretty much unabated, but it’s better than the alternative.”

  “Well, he obviously isn’t going to be in any shape to tell us much until tomorrow or the next day, so we’ll have to continue this discussion at that time, my Lord Rhun.” He glanced down at Gavin’s body.

  “Someone had better see about notifying Sir Gavin’s family, too,” he said wearily. “I want him laid out in the Chapel Royal, with burial in the vaults of Rhemuth Cathedral. And those men—” He gestured toward the two bewildered-looking prisoners. “Robear, take a detail to guard them. I’ll want Oriel to question them as soon as he’s up to it. I rather suspect we’ll find that Sitric had them controlled—though one of them was fighting the other, so maybe Oriel managed to take back control of him. The real question is, who ordered Sitric to do it? Why would he try to kill another Deryni?”

  He left them mulling that question while he went on to his quarters with Guiscard and Charlan to change out of his bloody clothes.

  Afterward Albertus accompanied Rhun back to his quarters, one of his knights and a battle surgeon in tow. Paulin and Hubert met them just outside.

  “Were you responsible for that?” Rhun demanded, when he had admitted them and closed the door. The Custodes knight remained outside to guard, but the surgeon stood at Albertus’ elbow, eyes downcast and leather-clad arms clasped easily behind his back, beneath his black mantle.

  “Please sit down, my lord,” Paulin said quietly. “I’m sorry for the loss of your Deryni. Fortunately, we have another.”

  Rhun froze and stared at Paulin, then flicked his gaze over the others, pausing to look more closely at the battle surgeon, whose face was the only one he did not know. Hubert also was staring at the man, who now was clean-shaven, the brown hair close-barbered after the fashion of a man-at-arms of the Custodes, with a token tonsure shaved at the crown.

  “Who is this man?” Rhun whispered.

  “Rhun, Earl of Sheele, permit me to present Master Dimitri,” Paulin said easily, smiling as Rhun recoiled from the dark gaze Dimitri raised to his. “While not a Healer, he does have rudimentary training as a battle surgeon. However, his more valuable skills have to do with interrogation. He has formerly passed as a scribe in my household, but we recently agreed that a change of image might be appropriate. I might add that Master Dimitri came to my employment of his own accord and willingly serves our cause. Had circumstances evolved otherwise today, your Sitric might still be alive, with Master Oriel awaiting burial as well as the unfortunate Sir Gavin.”

  “You mean, you set Sitric up to murder Oriel?” Rhun muttered. “Why was I not told?”

  “It seemed wiser that only those directly involved know of the plan, my lord,” Albertus replied. “As it was, your outrage was genuine and the king cannot suspect that you had any part in it. As you yourself suggested, without prompting, Oriel’s action in killing Sitric can be seen as an act of jealousy against the only other Deryni at Court. It now places Oriel more in doubt than ever. The king will not be able to keep him long at Court; and when he is gone, whether alive or dead, Master Dimitri leaves us in a position of strength.”

  Rhun exhaled audibly, obviously keeping his resentment in check, then pulled out a chair and sat.

  “I believe I’m owed some explanations,” he said, “without him present. Master Dimitri, if you will excuse us?”

  When Dimitri had gone outside to wait with the guarding knight, Paulin briefly reviewed their suspicions about the king and the recent developments concerning the captive Deryni still held hostage at the castle.

  “And Javan wants Ursin and his family out of here?” Rhun asked, when he had heard the background from several different perspectives.

  Hubert nodded. “It came out of the question of whether Ursin is still Deryni, and the status of his son, and then it became more an ecclesiastical matter. That’s one reason we didn’t tell you. And of course there was the added feature that you couldn’t reveal what you didn’t know. Now that it’s cost you your Deryni, you have a right to know. He’ll probably want to send Sitric’s family as well.”

  “I should just have them quietly strangled,” Rhun muttered.

  “There’s a better way,” Paulin said. “I think we should send them with Ursin’s wife and child. Maybe by then we can send Oriel’s as well.”

  “If you’re thinking to go after Oriel again, you’d better think twice,” Rhun said. “If he survives, what’s he g
oing to discover when he questions those two men who survived?”

  Oriel did survive, but it was two days before he was sufficiently recovered to question the two Haldane men-at-arms. At the insistence of Paulin, he was made to perform in front of the entire Council, who had gathered in the withdrawing room at the rear of the great hall to witness the interrogation. Before that, he had declared himself innocent of any plot to eliminate Sitric as a rival and stated that he had no recollection of lashing out at Sitric with his magic.

  “Though I suppose I must have, in self-defense,” he concluded, spreading his bandaged hands in a gesture of apology. “Healers are conditioned not to take life, but survival instincts can be more powerful. I swear to you, he and the men-at-arms attacked us without warning, there in the stairwell. They clearly meant to kill both of us, and they did kill Sir Gavin.”

  He had healed his hands on recovering the use of his powers, and the cut on his cheek as well, but he retained light bandages wrapped around his palms to protect the tenderness of newly healed wounds—and also to avoid reminding his listeners that he could work such magic.

  Dimitri noted this from his vantage point against the wall behind Albertus, for he and all the others who had witnessed the aftermath on the landing had been ordered to be present. He had not yet caught any hint of falsehood in Oriel’s statements, but something did not quite ring true. He bent to whisper in Albertus’ ear as Udaut was ordered to bring the first man in. Albertus nodded and passed the message on to Paulin.

  Lord Jerowen was designated to interview each man first, as a representative of the king’s justice, while Oriel merely Truth-Read. The first man-at-arms, whose name was Baldwin, related a confused story: of being told—he could not remember by whom—that Sir Gavin was plotting to kill Oriel. He and his fellows had gone to intercept Oriel in the stairwell, where the killing was to take place—no, he did not remember seeing Sitric—but Gavin had proven more powerful a swordsman than expected.

  They managed to take him, but only at the cost of several men—and then his captain had ordered them to turn their swords on Oriel after all. But just when Baldwin was moving in with his remaining fellows for the kill, Oriel had seized him, and a great pain had burst behind his eyes, and suddenly Baldwin knew that the two men facing him, one of them his comrade, were not supposed to kill Oriel, and he must protect the Deryni.

  After that, things got even more confused, with blinding lights and more pain, and then hands wrenching his sword from numb fingers and binding him—and he did not understand what had happened. He still did not understand.

  The Council stirred uneasily as Baldwin finished. Clearly, he believed his account to be true—Oriel indicated as much as he came forward, and freely admitted seizing control of the man to save himself—but equally clearly, the whole story had not been told. Baldwin himself admitted that there were gaps in his memory that he could not explain, though he swore to the king on bended knees that he had never intended treachery.

  He was trembling as he sat back into the chair they had placed for him, craning his neck to watch as Oriel came around behind him. He flinched as the Healer’s bandaged hands dropped lightly onto his shoulders.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” Oriel murmured as he shifted his thumbs to brace against the back of his subject’s neck, fingertips curving around the sides. “Relax now. You won’t be punished if you only acted under compulsion.”

  The man’s eyes closed under Oriel’s touch, and the Healer bowed his head. After several long minutes, Oriel looked up and drew a deep breath, though his subject did not stir. “Sire, I have no way to prove this to you, but it appears that Sitric approached each of the men involved and implanted certain beliefs and commands that could not be resisted. The crux of the story was that Gavin planned to assassinate me, and these men were to attempt to prevent it.

  “A secondary imperative required that, once Gavin had been eliminated, they were to turn on me after all. I believe you will find that the other prisoner has direct memory of having heard Gavin boast that he would kill me—that he was tired of Deryni influence at Court, interfering with the king and subverting his good judgment. I’m sorry, Sire, but that’s what the man claimed to have heard. You may verify it when the other man is brought in, before I lay a hand on him. I will leave the room, if you wish.”

  The involvement of a possible plot by Sitric turned all attention briefly on Rhun, who had been Sitric’s master, but Rhun denied any prior knowledge of the plot and stated unequivocally that he had never given Sitric any such orders. Oriel’s confirmation of the truth of the statement shifted the focus back to himself, and elicited muttered rumblings among his listeners, some clearly in agreement with the sentiment allegedly expressed by the late Gavin.

  “What of the magic that killed Sitric?” Paulin asked when the subject of Gavin’s motives had been exhausted.

  “What was it you wished to know, my lord?” Oriel replied.

  “What does he remember of that?”

  “Bright light, a sheet of fire enveloping Sitric. I—ah—had him under rather tight control at the time, my lord. I was trying to prevent his accomplice from butchering me as the merasha eroded my defenses. I—don’t think he saw much else.”

  Dimitri could read that this, too, was true, but again, something was missing. He told Albertus so, under the faint buzz of comment that passed among the assembled Council members as Udaut took the man out and brought in Nevell, the second man.

  Nevell’s story was much as his comrade’s, with the addition that he did indeed relate the promised story of having heard Gavin swear to kill Oriel, because of his undue influence on the king. Oriel’s probe revealed that the entire memory had been planted by Sitric, but of course he could not prove it, with Sitric and Gavin both dead. One thing that did seem certain, unless Rhun was lying, was that if Sitric had plotted the murder of Oriel, he had done so on his own, without Rhun’s connivance.

  “We certainly have no reason to doubt Lord Rhun’s word,” Tammaron said, when Udaut had taken Nevell away and Sir Sorle had taken Oriel out. “I must point out, however, that neither does his lack of involvement prove that Oriel himself is innocent in this matter, Sire. Unfortunately, with Master Oriel now the only Deryni left at Court, we no longer have a check to ensure his own truthfulness. Especially in a matter that may reflect on him personally, we can hardly accept his word.”

  “I believe Master Oriel is telling the truth, my lord,” Javan said, “but what do you suggest I do? What would convince you that it was Sitric and not Oriel who instigated the incident?”

  The consensus was that nothing would, but in the end Javan only agreed to keep Oriel under closer supervision in the future, with Sir Sorle assigned as his new personal bodyguard.

  “And for now, I’ll have the two men-at-arms kept under house arrest, as well,” Javan said. “I’m convinced that they were innocent of any deliberate participation, but I don’t see how I can trust them anymore. The next time there’s a rotation to one of our garrisons far removed from Rhemuth, I want them sent out. Robear, see to it.”

  “Aye, my liege.”

  Javan dismissed them after that, returning wearily to his quarters and sending Etienne to report the proceedings to Joram and ask for guidance. Oriel, all but convicted despite his innocence, was moved into quarters directly across the corridor from Javan’s, with Sorle in adjoining quarters on one side and Guiscard on the other.

  And later that night, while the castle slept, Master Dimitri moved silent as a wraith to take his turn on the rota for guarding the two disgraced men-at-arms.

  Javan was heading through the great hall the next morning with his brother and Sir Tomais and his own two aides, pulling on leather gloves in preparation for a brisk early ride, when Sir Robear came pounding down the main stair with Earl Udaut right behind him and headed them off at the great hall steps.

  “Sire, I don’t think you’ll want to take your ride this morning,” he said, gesturing toward the doorway
that led into the cloister colonnade skirting the garden, and not even looking to see whether Javan followed.

  “Go with Robear, Sire,” Udaut urged. “It isn’t going to be a pretty sight, though. It’s as well you’ve not yet eaten.”

  Even warned, Javan felt a little queasy as he drew up beside Robear on the far side of the garden, where a nude male body lay facedown in a flower bed. Rhys Michael and the others had gotten there ahead of him, except for Charlan, who had hung back to accommodate his master’s slower pace.

  “Who is it?” Javan asked, as his brother followed Udaut’s gesture toward an open window some four stories above them, where several men were peering down and pointing.

  Robear was kneeling beside the body and had turned the face to look at it, sighing and shaking his head as he did so.

  “I believe you’ll recall the name Baldwin, Sire?” he said.

  “Dear God, did he jump?” Javan breathed.

  “Jumped or was pushed.” Robear made as if to lift the body’s shoulders and turn it over, then shook his head again. There was blood underneath, for the unfortunate Baldwin had impaled himself on several garden stakes meant to support young plants.

  “Well, if the fall didn’t kill him, these didn’t help,” he said, standing and wiping his hands against the legs of his breeches as he glanced up at the window again. “I don’t suppose it was any worse than that other poor bastard.”

  “He’s dead, too?” Javan said.

  Up in the chamber Baldwin had vacated so precipitously, the hapless Nevell had found a slower if no less painful way of ending his life. Since he and his comrade had been under house arrest, without access to weapons, Nevell appeared to have smashed an empty wine flask and used one of the razor-sharp shards to slash both wrists almost to the bone and then start on his throat. He, too, was nude. If there had been doubt about Baldwin’s intentions, there was none about Nevell’s. The broken fragment was still clenched tightly in his stiffened fingers, his blood sprayed all over the room and spattering his white body. The dead eyes were fixed on the window through which his comrade had jumped, the mouth set in a rictus of mad triumph.