King Javan’s Year (22 page)

“O Lord, Thou art holy indeed: the fountain of all holiness. We pray Thee now send Thy holy Archangel of Fire, the Blessed Michael, to instill this water with the fire of Thy love and make it holy. So may all who drink of it command the element of Fire. Amen.”

He moved his right hand a little aside from the cup as he had done before, cupping the palm upward, but the fire that grew to egg size in the hollow of his hand was not of his own crafting; rather, it was spun from the memory that Queron invoked, yet as substantial as if Joram had conjured the flame it represented.

He tilted his hand above the cup and watched the fiery sphere float slowly downward, steam hissing upward as fire permeated the water, lingering as a cold blue flame that frosted the surface and played about the white-glazed rim. With no less reverence than he had that first time, Joram turned to offer the ghost-cup to the image of his sister, standing at his left. She shook her wind-tousled hair back off her face in a graceful and fondly remembered gesture and took the cup. Their fingers brushed as it passed—warm and alive!—and Joram found himself staring at her as she bowed her head over it for a moment, then raised it in supplication.

“O Lord, Thou art holy indeed: the fountain of all holiness,” she seemed to say. “Let now Thine Archangel Gabriel, who rules the stormy waters, instill this cup with the rain of Thy wisdom, that they who shall drink hereof may justly command the element of Water. Amen.”

Joram could feel the tension rebuilding as it had that long-ago night, and he flinched a little as lightning crackled in the air above their heads and thunder rumbled, and a small, dark cloud began to take shape above the cup. Power smouldered in Evaine's blue eyes, contained yet potent; and as the thunder spoke again, more softly this time, the little cloud gave way to a brief thundershower. Most of the rain fell into the cup, but some of it ran down the sides and a few drops splashed on those watching. The drop that hit Joram's upper lip had been real that other time; and as he tasted of this one, it was just as sweet as he remembered.

She lowered the cup, and Joram watched her pass it to the Alister Cullen figure, who was their father. He watched Camber-Alister raise the cup to eye level with both hands, the sea-ice eyes fixed on a point above, and
knew
the coming of the One he called.

“O Lord, Thou art holy indeed: the fountain of all holiness,” the familiar voice murmured, wrenching at Joram's heart. “Let Uriel, Thy messenger of darkness and of death, instill this cup with all the strength and secrets of the earth, that they who shall drink hereof may justly command the element of Earth. Amen.”

The earth did not really tremble under their feet this time, but a part of Joram was convinced that it did. He seemed to hear the dull rattle of the altar candlesticks and the chains of the thurible, as he had before, and the light tinkle of the Ring of Fire vibrating at the bottom of the white-glazed cup in Camber-Alister's hands.

But as he watched and listened, another part of him became convinced that he was hearing the actual ring vibrating at the bottom of the actual cup on the little altar table. He looked at it sharply, and it stopped as quickly, as the Camber-Alister figure lowered the ghost-cup in its hands.

But now events diverged from memory. Where before Camber-Alister had passed the cup back to Cinhil for the culmination of the ritual, he now turned his sea-ice gaze upon Queron, who had not been present that night, raising the cup to him in bidding and compulsion.

Joram could feel his heart beginning to pound as a sense of immanent Presence seemed to surge over him like a wave. Queron obviously realized that events were diverging, too. Still sunk in his own deep trancing, but impelled now by direction not of his crafting, the Healer let his hand slip from Joram's shoulder and moved forward to pick up the physical cup from the little table. Joram could see him quite clearly, but could do no more than watch, struck motionless and dumb.

Queron straightened, holding the cup in his two hands, and turned his face slightly toward the right, toward the Cinhil figure. The figure wavered, then dissolved into a disembodied mist that flowed over and enveloped him like a cloak, transparent yet substantial, giving his face a very near likeness to Cinhil's. That face was expressionless as he continued across the circle toward the North and held out the physical cup to that quarter's representative. Bowing slightly, the Camber-Alister figure set his ghost-cup over the real one, so that the two merged into one.

“The cup is ready, Sire,” the Camber-Alister figure said. “What remains is in your hands.”

Gravely Queron bowed to him, turning then to approach the wide-eyed Javan, still trembling where he had been left. From his expression, Joram guessed that the boy now was seeing Queron as his father. As Queron lifted the cup between them and spoke, the voice was certainly Cinhil's.

“Javan, you are my son and heir,” he said, paraphrasing slightly, for the words he recited had been for Alroy that first time. “Drink. By this mystery shall you come to the power that is your Divine Right, as king of this realm; and even so shall you instruct your own sons, if that should some day come to pass.”

Under the compulsion of his father's eyes, Javan lifted his hands to rest on the hands that held the cup, tipping it to drink. Joram could hear the Ring of Fire tumbling along the side of the cup as Javan drained it, and he found himself moving in to take the cup as Javan's hands fell away. He moved behind Javan when he had set the cup down, catching him under the arms when the king began to sway on his feet, an odd expression on his face as he stared at his “father.”

Then he saw the reason for Javan's expression. For beyond Queron-Cinhil, who now slowly raised his hands to clasp them to Javan's head the way Cinhil had done, the Camber-Alister figure had now become wholly Camber, pale eyes serene and compassionate, quicksilver hair gleaming in the candlelight as he glided in beside Queron to set his hands atop the Healer's, just as they made contact with Javan's head.

Javan reacted as if he had been bolted, body going rigid and then buckling at the knees, eyes rolling upward in their sockets. Joram, bracing the king from behind, had to shift his own balance to keep both of them on their feet. He gaped at the familiar figure, so near and yet so far, shrinking back a little in fear as, after a breathless heartbeat or two, the figure lifted the hand nearest him to touch it briefly to his brow.

The touch was not quite physical, but the touch of the other's mind was exquisitely real.

You need not fear
, the familiar mind spoke in his.
Well have you wrought this night's work
.

Joram reeled under the touch, for the mind that spoke to his undoubtedly was his father's.

Father, will he keep his crown?
he asked.
Will what we have done be enough?

That knowledge is not given me
, Camber returned.
Many enemies will seek his life. Pray that the vessel bears no hidden weaknesses, and bid him remember that kings kin to those of our blood can die just as easily as humans, if sword or arrow take their toll
.

With that the hand withdrew and the voice faded from Joram's mind, the figure also vanishing. In that same instant Javan went completely limp, and Queron as well, so that Joram had to shuffle quickly to ease both to the floor.

“Joram, what's happened!” he could hear Tavis calling, on his feet now on the other side of the circle, shading his eyes to squint past the veiling.

“Javan's fine,” Joram muttered, after a cursory pass of his hand over the king's brow—for he had anticipated that the boy might pass out in the intensity of his experience; he had before. He had not expected it of Queron.

He checked Queron next, pressing his fingers hard against the carotid pulse and probing with his mind. The pulse was steady, Queron's unconsciousness apparently of the sort that often followed the conclusion of a profound inner working.

“They've both just fainted,” Joram said, scrambling to his feet and staggering none too steadily over to the sword, which he swept up and across and down to cut a doorway.

Tavis was past it as soon as it literally was possible to do so, darting in first to check Javan, then shifting to Queron, who was starting to stir. Joram reclosed the gate and went to join them, kneeling anxiously at Queron's side as the elder Healer opened his eyes with a flutter, clearly startled to find himself lying flat on his back.

“What happened?” he demanded, dark eyes flicking first to Tavis, whose hand was on his brow, then to Joram.

“You—ah—got into the ritual more than I think you planned,” Joram said, choosing his words carefully, since Tavis was listening. “After we'd re-created the charging of the cup, you came into the center of the circle and picked up the physical cup. Do you remember that?”

“Aye.” He started to sit up, but Tavis' hand stayed him. “Then you—assimilated the Cinhil-figure,” Joram said, sending him a mental image of what he had seen.

Queron nodded. “Preparing to take that role, so that the real cup could be offered to Javan,” he said. “I remember that.”

“Do you remember taking the ghost-cup from the Alister-figure after that?” Tavis asked, as Queron again made an attempt to sit up and this time was allowed, even assisted, by the younger Healer.

“I remember that it seemed to have weight,” Queron said. He cocked his head as he gazed unfocused past them. “Odd—somehow it seemed like more than just the weight of the physical cup in my hands. You know, I'd always planned to do that part of the recreation—reciting Cinhil's words before giving Javan to drink. But
after
he'd drunk …”

His voice trailed off, memory apparently eluding him of the most important part of what had just happened.

“It was
somebody else
who put his hands on your hands, Queron,” Joram prompted, looking at the elder Healer and willing him to a tight link that Tavis could not overhear.

But Tavis nodded his head anyway, clearly having seen exactly what Joram had seen.

“I'd been expecting you to take on the Cinhil façade,” Tavis said, awed. “We'd all agreed that was necessary, to maintain the illusion for Javan. But this was after that—and after you'd taken the cup overlay into the physical one. The Alister image followed you over to Javan while he was drinking, and then it—changed. Just before it touched him, it changed.”

He glanced in question at the Michaeline priest, but Joram was saved from having to answer by a faint whimper and a twitch from Javan. At once recalled to his duty, Joram reached behind him to pluck the Ring of Fire out of the white-glazed goblet, hastily drying it on the hem of his cassock.

Javan breathed a little sigh and opened his eyes.

“I saw my father,” he whispered, his gaze flicking to the other faces to see if they had seen it, too. “It was just like that other time. I remember everything now. It didn't hurt this time, though. He put something into my head, but it didn't hurt me.”

Trembling, Tavis brushed his hand across the king's brow, almost a caress, and set his stump lightly against his neck.

“Do you remember
what
he put into your head, my prince?” he whispered. “
Think!
”

“I think this will help,” Joram said, displaying the ring and reaching for Javan's left hand. “The original mandate that Cinhil set in you and Alroy and Rhys Michael was meant to be triggered by putting on this ring, after he was dead. We'll probably never know why it didn't work for Alroy; but after what's just happened, I'd be surprised if it doesn't work for you.” He poised the ring at the tip of Javan's left ring finger. “Are you ready?”

As Javan nodded, eyes wide and trusting, Joram slid the ring onto the finger and shoved it home.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

Surely thou hast spoken in mine hearing, and I have heard the voice of thy words
.

—Job 33:8

It was like waking from refreshing sleep, or opening a door onto sunlight. In one instant Javan was still bewildered, uncertain whether he had at last attained his father's legacy; in the next, in less than a blink of the eye, knowledge was upon him. He stiffened momentarily as he realized it had happened, relaxing then as he briefly allowed himself to explore the deeper awareness suddenly made his. He was aware of Joram and Queron and Tavis watching him, waiting, and he allowed a slow, lazy smile to come upon his lips as he sat up and looked at them.

“This is the legacy that you and Evaine and Rhys and your father gave to
my
father, isn't it?” he said to Joram, flicking open a mind link directly to the priest and grinning as Joram, pleased, took up the link and sent tentative congratulations. “It's really quite extraordinary. I can see now that it's been here all along; I just didn't know how to tap it. Or—I was starting to learn, but this took away whatever was holding me back: the strictures placed because Alroy was supposed to have it first.”

He glanced around him at the shimmer of the circle still enfolding them, and what he could now see beyond it—vague shadow-shapes of the Watchers they had called to Ward the place. They brooded at the four Quarters—he had the impression they were looking directly at him, though he could sense no eyes. He felt awe before them, but no longer any fear.

“I understand what all of this was about, too,” Javan went on softly. “I know who you called, and why. I'm aware that I still have limitations, but now I have the knowledge to make full use of what I do have.” He shook his head and sighed. “I see, too, why my father was reluctant to use his power. He didn't understand. With God's help, maybe I'll have the wisdom to use mine, though. It may well be the only way I'll survive.”

To demonstrate his newfound talents, Joram had him direct the closing of the circle then. The king's performance was flawless, coolly mediating all excess energy into the earth beneath them and then dismissing the Quarters with unruffled courtesy. When he had taken up the sword to conclude the rite, symbolically cutting across the arcs of the circle in four places and saluting the East a final time, he turned to give the blade back into Joram's keeping—and staggered as a wave of exhaustion hit him.