King Javan’s Year (50 page)

“But it started to stir in me. It's been useful over the years, and it gets more useful all the time. For a long time, I was able to use it on you—to see if you were telling the truth, to help you go to sleep, sometimes to make you forget I'd done anything. It even helped me deal with the regents in those early years.”

Rhys Michael had gone very rigid as Javan unfolded his confession, and he glanced uneasily at Guiscard's hands on his shoulders, suddenly reminded that he was held from retreat.

“What are you saying?” he whispered. “Do you have some kind of power, like your old Deryni friends?”

In answer, Javan let his shields flare around his head in a visible aura, a vaguely crimson glow of sparkling luminance. Rhys Michael recoiled at the sight, his face going white, and wilted under Guiscard's hands.

“No,” he managed to whisper. “You aren't Deryni. You
can't
be Deryni. Because if
you're
Deryni—”

“You would be, too,” Javan supplied. “But we're not.” He conjured handfire in his right hand and held it out to Rhys Michael, a gently glowing sphere of crimson light. “Some of the powers are similar,” he murmured, dispelling the light with a snap of his fingers. “Some of them are very subtle, such as being able to recognize whether a person is telling the truth. That was one of the first things I learned to do.

“But one of the most useful talents, especially in the beginning, is having shields the way the Deryni do. It means that no one can get into your mind to control you—not a Deryni and not someone who has powers like a Deryni.”

Without warning, Javan set his right hand to his brother's forehead and surged his mind out across the bond of flesh to wash against the resistance of shields Rhys Michael had not known he had. Rhys Michael gasped and made a halfhearted attempt to twist from under Guiscard's grasp, but the Deryni held him steady for Javan's continued probe—physical restraint only, but not needing to do more as Javan focused on putting his brother's shields to a fairly rigorous test.

The younger prince's initial panic shifted rapidly through frantic uncertainty and then into growing discomfort as he became aware of the unaccustomed sensation of pressure against his shields. Just when he thought he must cry out from the pain, it stopped, Javan dropping his hand and sitting back on the table edge with a perplexed sigh.

“Well, you'll know it if anybody tries to get past
those
,” he murmured, cocking his brother a crooked little grin. “It isn't likely that anyone will try—
I
won't, now that I know how strong they are—but if I were you, I'd still try to avoid the notice of Sitric or any other tame Deryni the great lords might bring to court. Oriel is safe—he knows about me—but if anyone else even suspects you have shields like that, you're dead.”

“I—don't understand,” Rhys Michael whispered, still a little dazed.

“I don't, either,” Javan replied, which was mostly true, though at least he knew what had finally focused his powers. “I do know that whatever abilities you might eventually develop to go along with those shields, they aren't apt to be much help if the opposition decides you're Deryni-tainted. Just remember Declan Carmody, if you start to get cocky.”

Rhys Michael shuddered, suddenly looking a little sick, and Javan had to concentrate to push back the images he had conjured in his own mind.

“It's quite a quandary, isn't it?” he said after a moment. “Somehow, I've been given the power to make a great deal of difference, but I don't much dare use it, because if anyone finds out I have this power, they'll try to destroy me—and call it divine justice, because the Church has managed to convince nearly everyone that Deryni are evil, that their powers come from the devil. It doesn't matter that I'm not Deryni—and I'm afraid I don't know exactly where my powers come from, though I'm reasonably sure it isn't from the devil. They'd still damn me in the same terms they damn Deryni. Talk about a double-edged sword.”

“Go back to Declan,” Rhys Michael whispered, staring up at him fearfully. “They gave him
merasha
, so he couldn't fight back. They gave it to Cathan and Mika, to see if they had Deryni powers. Javan, what if we got dosed with
merasha
? Would they think we were Deryni?”

A queasy roiling stirred in the pit of Javan's stomach. He had wondered about it before, but the implications now were even more staggering. He glanced at Guiscard, seeking reassurance, but the Deryni could give none. Clearly, he did not know either.

“I honestly don't know, Rhysem,” Javan said slowly. “It might be a good idea to find out, but I'd rather it didn't happen at the hands of the
Custodes
or someone like them. We
should
react as human, but—I just don't know.”

Rhys Michael heaved a defeated sigh, then glanced wearily at Guiscard's hands still on his shoulders.

“I'm not going to do anything stupid,” he murmured. “Does he have to keep his hands on me?”

“Guiscard, you can wait in the other room,” Javan said quietly. “Thank you for your assistance.”

As Guiscard withdrew, Javan glanced over his shoulder at Charlan, still guarding the door, then back at Rhys Michael. “Do you want Charlan to leave, too?”

At Rhys Michael's nod, Javan gestured with his chin for Charlan to join Guiscard. When the door had closed between the two rooms, Javan looked back at his brother.

“Well,” he said quietly. “This evening didn't quite go as either of us had planned, did it? Returning to the subject that prompted this rather painful discussion, do I have your word that you won't pursue this matter of marrying Michaela for a while? You do understand, I hope, that it isn't just the petty jealousy of your celibate brother that's asking this.”

Rhys Michael lowered his eyes, twining his fingers in his lap and staring at them sightlessly. “I do love her, Javan.”

“No one said you didn't. It's clear that you do, and that she loves you. I wish you joy of one another—but not yet. All I'm asking is that you wait until I think it's safe.”

“But that could be years,” Rhys Michael said. “I wasn't cut out to be celibate, Javan. You might be, but I'm not. I
need
her.”

“Do you think I don't have needs, too?” Javan replied, trying not to get angry all over again. “You may
need
Michaela, but you and I both
need
to stay alive. That comes first. If you marry now, you seriously reduce the chances that either of us will ever live to see our sons grow old.”

“I can't believe they'd really do what you're saying,” Rhys Michael said. “They couldn't kill us both. People would suspect.”

“But we'd still be dead,” Javan pointed out, “and the legitimate heir would be a minor, to be governed by a regency until he or she came of age. The old regents have tasted that kind of power before, Rhysem. They want it back. And the only way they can get it is to see us dead.”

Rhys Michael sighed and shook his head wearily, covering a yawn. “You may be right. I don't think you are, but I suppose it's possible. Can I go to bed now? I'm suddenly very tired.”

“You haven't yet given me your word about Michaela,” Javan said quietly. “You aren't leaving until I have it—unless you'd prefer one of those other three options I outlined earlier this evening.”

“Oh, all right!” Rhys Michael replied, giving an exasperated sigh. “You're taking this whole thing entirely too seriously. I understand about Michaela and I won't pursue the matter for now. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Only if you mean it. Do you?”

Rolling his eyes heavenward, Rhys Michael raised his right hand in oath. “As God is my witness, I swear to you that I will not pursue the matter of Michaela for now.”

“You won't see her before she leaves, or attempt to write to her while she's gone?” Javan insisted.

“I can't even write to her?”

“I think it will only make it more difficult for both of you, if you do.”

Rhys Michael heaved an exasperated sigh. “All right, I swear it. I won't give her up altogether, though.”

“I'm not asking that,” Javan replied, satisfied that his brother had spoken the truth when he made his oath.

After Rhys Michael had gone, though, Javan worried about the understandable bitterness behind the oath, and found himself considering what other fruit this night's work might bring.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-EIGHT

Mine enemies reproach me all the day; and they that are mad against me are sworn against me
.

—Psalms 102:8

To no great surprise on Javan's part, Rhys Michael did not appear for Father Faelan's weekday Mass the next morning, though he often omitted to attend, and sent word as Javan was preparing for their morning ride that he was not feeling well and would spend the day in bed. Somewhat dubious, though he knew his brother had gone straight to his room after their conversation of the night before, Javan decided to practice his lance work in the tilting yard instead of riding out, sticking close to home, and had Guiscard and Charlan take turns at keeping Rhys Michael's quarters under casual surveillance throughout the day. Earl Manfred was in Council that afternoon but gave no indication that anything was amiss in his household, so Javan had to conclude that Michaela had not told her guardian about the previous night's misadventure.

That evening, to Javan's surprise and relief, his brother duly appeared for supper in the great hall, apologizing for his absence of the day and declaring himself much recovered from his earlier malaise. That much, at least, was true. For the rest of the evening, charming as only Rhys Michael could be, he stayed close to Javan and contrived to comport himself as the most proper of princes, attentive and gracious, neither seeking out Manfred and his household nor avoiding them. Since Michaela was not present, Javan thought this probably was not difficult, but he was glad to see his brother at least going through the motions of compliance. When the Court at last retired, he sent Charlan to keep watch outside the prince's apartments, with orders to apprehend any nocturnal wanderings. At midmorning the next day, Manfred and his household rode out of Rhemuth, Michaela meekly among them, with no further contact apparent between his ward and the king's brother.

Javan informed Joram of the incident with Rhys Michael that very night, using the outward excuse of several bottles of good Fianna wine to seek out the company of Guiscard's father in his new quarters, with Guiscard and Charlan accompanying him. Not that Javan got any of the wine. He left the others to enjoy it, himself standing alone on the Portal square and giving them nervous salute before bending the energies to his will.

Half an hour later he had conveyed every detail to Joram, Niallan, and Jesse in a little study not far from the Portal chamber in the Michaeline stronghold. They were sitting around a little table, the room lit by candles in sconces on the walls, and it was cooler by far than in Rhemuth.

“I suppose I overreacted a bit,” he said when they had returned to verbal communication. “With those shields, though, I couldn't force compliance. I figured that maybe the shock value of finding out about our powers would make an impression where mere logic couldn't. He also can't very well expose me out of spite without putting himself in danger. And what about
merasha
? Are we vulnerable?”

Joram steepled his fingertips against his chin, resting his elbows on the chair arms. He and Niallan both were wearing Michaeline habit tonight, Joram with the white sash of his Michaeline knighthood gleaming in the dim-lit room.

“That's something we've never gotten around to finding out,” he said. “There was
merasha
in what Rhys gave you the night your father died, but that was before any powers were set. Your faculties were certainly disrupted that night, but there were several other drugs as well as other factors that could have been responsible. We specifically omitted
merasha
for your own rite, precisely because we didn't know how you'd react.”

“Well, with the
Custodes
going around using it to ferret out Deryni, don't you think I ought to know? They used it on Father Faelan, just as a sedative. They already knew he wasn't Deryni.”

Niallan sighed and leaned back in his chair, the hand with his bishop's ring lightly caressing his close-cropped grey beard.

“It's very fortunate that they didn't use you the same way, my prince, when they bled you at
Arx Fidei
,” he said. “Otherwise, we might not now be having this conversation.”

“Then you think it
will
affect me?” Javan whispered.

“I should think it highly likely. However, if we test you and you do react, there's a disadvantage you probably haven't even thought of.”

“Which is?”

“Well, simply not knowing is one thing. But if you do know and
merasha
does affect you, apprehension could color your behavior before anyone even thought seriously of testing you, and perhaps make the testing more likely.”

“I can see that possibility,” Javan agreed. “I still think I'd rather know. What's a safe way to find out?”

“In your present situation, there
are
no safe ways,” Joram replied. “If we dose you with it, and you react, you're going to be out of commission for half a day and shaky for the best part of another day after that. Covering the first period is easy enough, if you start early in the evening. You can always complain of a headache earlier in the day and say you're taking a physick to knock you out for the night. But a king is expected to function every day. Imagine the worst hangover you've ever had, and then multiply it tenfold. That might begin to give you an idea what it could be like.”