King Javan’s Year (37 page)

“Very well, I'll accept that reasoning,” Joram said after a few seconds. “In this instance, I think Guiscard
is
better suited. Jesse, go ahead back to the sanctuary. You've done enough for one night. Niallan and I will follow when we've finished tidying up.”

The order brooked no disagreement. Nodding, Jesse clapped a hand to Guiscard's shoulder and rose. As he moved off toward the Portal square, Joram murmured, “All right, let's get him up.”

Without further ado, he and Niallan guided Brother Serafin to his feet, Javan and a benumbed Oriel looking on in sober silence. Then Lior, too, was roused, he and Serafin standing docilely to either side of Guiscard with eyes closed. As an afterthought, Joram brought Father Faelan around as well, summoning Etienne to take charge of him as they opened the door for Guiscard and his pair to pass.

“I suggest you restart the scenario with Serafin and Lior leaving Faelan's quarters, having concluded a short but satisfactory interview,” Joram said to Guiscard, one hand on Etienne's wrist to send him the gist of what had happened and what was planned. “Be careful, both of you—and may God have mercy on
his
soul.”

His hand sketched the Sign of the Cross over Serafin, just before Guiscard moved them out, final dismissal of the man being sent unwitting to his death. Etienne followed with Faelan, Charlan remaining outside to guard. Joram, when he had closed the door again, stood for a long moment with his hands resting on the latch, head bowed against the wood, before finally turning to glance wearily around the room.

Jesse was gone. Niallan had drawn Oriel into the window embrasure and was deep in conversation with him, both hands resting on the Healer's shoulders. Javan had been watching the departure from near the Portal square, and met his gaze fearlessly as Joram came over to him.

“Joram, I want Dimitri,” the king said quietly. “At this point, I don't
care
whether he's a Torenthi agent or not. I want him gone, and in such a way that Paulin won't try the same thing again. In fact, if Paulin can also be taken out, so much the better. I want the
Custodes
gone, as well, but I'll settle for a new Vicar General, as an interim step. I can't imagine the Order could survive in its present form for very long, once Paulin's out of the picture.”

Joram pursed his lips, considering. “You do realize that we're talking about more killing?”

“Vermin control,” Javan murmured, himself surprised at his own cold-bloodedness. “Do
you
see any other way?”

“No,” Joram said. “It's going to take some doing, though. We've already discussed the difficulties of going after Dimitri without your sources coming to light. It will require a
very
careful setup.”

“Then we'd better start planning,” Javan replied. “I don't expect overnight results and I certainly don't want to stir up further problems before I'm safely crowned. But we daren't let this drag on, either. Dimitri is dangerous, no matter who he's working for, and Paulin is warping religion for his own ends. They've got to be stopped.”

“Let me see what else I can find out,” Joram said. “We'll first want to see whether Serafin's death generates any suspicion. It shouldn't, but the timing could have been better, with Faelan less than a week arrived at Court. I hope, though, that any connection they might make will get lost amid all the normal upheavals of the next few days. It's vital that you get through your coronation without incident.”

“I can't argue with that,” Javan agreed. “Incidentally, did Jesse tell you why we were late—besides being delayed by our
Custodes
guests?”

“Yes, spontaneous shields in Rhys Michael and intimations of matrimony with Michaela,” Joram replied. “Someone thought your job wasn't difficult enough already.”

Javan did not even try to restrain his ironic chuckle. “I've always heard that God moves in mysterious ways. Frankly, I'd be happier with a bit less mystery. I don't suppose the shields are exactly a surprise, though. The timing is awkward, but he hasn't got a Tavis to help him figure out what's happening—and
I
don't intend to tell him. Marriage just now is out of the question, too—to
anybody
. I may have to send one of them away from Court, until his ardor cools.”

“I'd also check to see whether someone else isn't actively encouraging this grand passion,” Joram said, gesturing toward the Portal square. “It's possible he thought of it himself, but I wouldn't put it past any of the former regents. But we'd better have a look at your night's work now. I want to be certain you can use it. After that, Niallan and I must be off.”

Nodding, Javan crouched down beside the square, trying to put his other concerns out of mind as he laid his hands flat on it, aware of Joram's scrutiny above him. Other than a moistness of new mortar sealing the square to the other flags surrounding it and a faint dampening where someone had wiped out the chalk lines with a wet cloth, no physical sign remained of their presence here tonight.

Not so the reason for their presence, though even that was subtle, confined to the area bounded by the single flagstone and undetectable until one actually touched it—and only a Deryni or one Deryni-gifted would detect it even then. Javan sensed its telltale tingle under his hands and closed his eyes to better savor it—though having helped create it, he could never have mistaken this spot on earth for any other. He gave himself a few seconds to let its knowledge settle into every fiber of his consciousness, then exhaled with a satisfied sigh and got slowly to his feet.

“I can make it work,” he said to Joram.

“Good. Then suppose you demonstrate by taking me back to the sanctuary for a few minutes,” Joram replied, stepping onto the Portal square. “Niallan will stay with Oriel while you're gone.”

Javan restrained a start of surprise, for the Michaeline priest had never before invited such a contact as he was now suggesting. In all their previous interactions, as in the night's earlier decision, Joram had always taken charge—self-possessed, competent, faintly distant. Never had he offered to give up control to Javan. That he did so now bespoke a subtle change in their relationship, a powerful trust, not only in Javan's abilities but in his judgment and self-restraint; for even the most powerful Deryni was vulnerable when placing him- or herself in another's hands to make a Portal jump.

Hardly missing a beat, Javan stepped in boldly beside Joram and took his wrist. He dared not look at Joram for fear of losing his nerve, so he drew a breath and closed his eyes, centering and then reaching out tentatively for the consciousness beside him, wondering whether he needed to talk Joram down the way Joram usually did for him.

But Joram was already still and centered, and at Javan's touch rolled back his shields without hesitation. Even as Javan sought out the control points, Joram was offering them to him—passive receptivity, unequivocal and unreserved, awaiting Javan's bidding. With a fierce surge of gratitude and pride and perhaps even love, Javan took Joram's mind to his, poised on the brink, and reached out to warp the energies.

The jump was a good one, as smooth as Javan had ever made. His own and Joram's satisfaction flared around the pair of them like a mantle as he stabilized them both at the other end and released the priest. Joram wore a wry smile of approval as he opened his eyes, and he shifted his arm around Javan's shoulders in a gesture of almost paternal camaraderie as they moved off the Portal square in the Michaeline sanctuary. The shift of place had caused a shift of mood as well.

“Well done indeed, my prince,” Joram murmured. “You've learned
all
your lessons well.”

Javan managed a grim ghost of a smile and dared to look up at Joram, knowing he was not speaking of the Portal jump at all.

“I suppose I truly came of age tonight, didn't I?” he said. “I lost my innocence. I ordered a man's death and then I asked for more deaths. I never expected … It was—it was—”

“It was done exactly as it should have been, my prince—all of it,” Joram said quietly. “You are my king, and you must be master in your house and master of those who serve you. You know the weight as well as the power of the crown you shall wear. When you are crowned on Monday, you will be king in a way that no man has been king for many generations. I pray God may grant you the wisdom to wisely wield the power you shall bring with you, as you approach His altar. Your challenge is great, but so are the rewards—for you and for all of Gwynedd, if you prosper.”

Listening, Javan found he had tears in his eyes, but he would not take his gaze from Joram's.

“I wish you could be there to crown me, Joram,” he said softly. “Your father crowned
my
father—not in the cathedral, but in a way that mattered far more, when he had defeated Imre and won his crown by his valor. I fear Hubert's hands will profane the rite.”

Joram looked a little taken aback, but his answer was what Javan might have expected.

“You know that isn't true, my prince. For all his human failings, Hubert was duly consecrated for the holy office he will perform for you. His unworthiness cannot tarnish the crown you shall wear, or diminish the rite by which he places it upon your head.”

Javan swallowed awkwardly, hanging his head a little. “I keep reminding myself of that,” he whispered. “I suppose I'll endure it the same way I've endured receiving Communion from his hands and from
Custodes
priests, knowing that the Sacrament overshadows its instrument. I still wish you were doing it—or even that you could simply
be
there. I've sought this, because it's the duty I was born to, but it isn't a burden I take up lightly.”

Joram had begun to watch him with a new intensity as he spoke, and now he slowly set his hands on Javan's shoulders, searching his eyes, a gravity come upon him of someone older, even more awesome than Joram at his most powerful, almost a physical presence that made Javan want to kneel before him.

“Javan, I was present when my father placed the crown on your father's head,” Joram said quietly, his voice a little flattened as if in trance. “I sense his presence, and his willingness that you should receive a like crowning from my hands—and his. Is this your will as well?”

Javan had no idea how Joram proposed to accomplish this, but a new power was in the priest, coursing through him and tingling through his hands where they touched Javan's shoulders. Almost without his own volition, Javan felt himself sinking beneath those hands, to kneel at Joram's feet as he sensed his father had knelt before Camber, his own hands clasped wonderingly at his breast as he gazed upward.

Joram's face had changed. It both was and was not his own. Lifting his hands from Javan's shoulders, Joram joined them before him for just an instant, head bowed in prayer, then lifted them parted above Javan's head and fixed his gaze on the space between them. As both of them watched, neither daring to breathe, the air shimmered and then solidified in the likeness of Gwynedd's State Crown of leaves and crosses intertwined. A faint breath of awe escaped Javan's lips as Joram curved his hands around the ghostly image and seemed to raise it higher above both their heads. The voice that whispered from Joram's lips was not quite his own.

“Javan Jashan Urien Haldane, thine ancient line is continued, to the great joy of thy people,” Joram said, though it was not only Joram who spoke as he lowered the crown to rest on Javan's head. “Be crowned with strength and wisdom for all thy days. And may the Almighty grant thee a long and prosperous reign, in justice and honor for all thy people of Gwynedd.”

No crown but Joram's hands touched Javan's head in that instant, but the weight was as real as any diadem of metal and jewels and the moment as sacred as if Javan had knelt in the cathedral. As Joram's hands curved in gentle caress and he bowed to rest his forehead against Javan's for just an instant, Javan sensed another presence enfolding him in fierce protection and affirmation, so potent that he swayed under its power, faintly disoriented.

Then Joram was drawing a deep, shuddering breath, straightening, sliding his hands to Javan's shoulders to help him rise, and the moment was past. Javan pulled back a little as he staggered to his feet, almost afraid to look at Joram again, but the priest appeared almost as bewildered as Javan felt.

“Who—”

Joram gave an uneasy shake of his head. “It—felt like my father,” he murmured. “He—made an appearance the night we stirred up your powers, too.”

“You didn't tell me,” Javan whispered, accusation in his voice.

“It—didn't seem appropriate, at the time,” Joram said. “And later, the opportunity didn't arise. Does it bother you that a saint takes a personal interest in your affairs? It does me, and he's my father.”

“I don't know,” Javan said carefully. “I'll have to think about it.” He paused. “Joram, was it
really
Saint Camber?”

Joram flashed him a taut, uneasy grin. “Oh, yes. Of all the doubts I have about a great many things, that is not one of them.

“But you'd better go back now. Try to avoid being seen going back to your apartments. After the coronation, I'd install some trustworthy person in the Portal room as soon as possible. Perhaps one of your knights—one you'd have reason to visit reasonably often and who can be easily directed.”

Javan nodded. “I already have someone in mind.”

“God go with you, then, my prince.”

Javan was not altogether satisfied with Joram's answer about Saint Camber, but it would have to wait for another time. Squaring his shoulders, he backed onto the Portal square again, never taking his eyes from Joram's until he had seized the energies and was actually beginning the jump.

He opened his eyes to see Niallan waiting for him, just off the Portal square. Charlan and a drowsy-looking Oriel were standing by the door. He longed to tell Niallan what had just happened, for Niallan had been there when Saint Camber made his other appearance, that night they had confirmed his Haldane powers, but there was no time now. Niallan must be away, and Javan must see that Oriel got back to his quarters safely and that everyone else had ended up where and how he was supposed to be. He tried not to think about the doomed Serafin, perhaps already lying dead in the darkness.