King Javan’s Year (9 page)

“Yes, what is it?”

“Will—you and Rhysem and Oriel receive Holy Communion as well?” He stifled a little cough. “I know that no one can go with me on—my final journey, but—will you accompany me this far, at least?”

Greatly moved, for he had not expected this, Javan bowed his head over the golden cup again, allowing the others time to prepare as well as himself, then dutifully gave them Communion. By the time he carefully put the cover back on the ciborium, he could hardly see for the tears; and as he set the vessel back on the table beside the bed, Alroy surrendered to a long-suppressed coughing bout.

It curled him onto his side again and left him gasping when Oriel at last managed to control it. The cloth he had jammed against his lips as he coughed came away stained with red. The young king's face was white but composed as he straightened once more in the Healer's arms and cast his gaze first to Rhys Michael, then to Javan, finally laying his right hand atop Oriel's, over his heart.

“I—think it's—time for that cup now—Master Oriel,” he managed to gasp out, the breath rattling liquidly in his chest. “I—never was very—brave.”

“I have—always thought you
very
brave, my prince,” Oriel whispered, reaching blindly for the cup, which Rhys Michael tearfully set in his hand. “But you need not worry about bravery anymore. You have fought the good fight; and God's angels surely await you, to escort you to His bosom.”

He brought the cup to the king's lips without wavering, his supporting arm strong behind Alroy's shoulders, suppressing the coughing so that the king could drain it in a few labored swallows. Javan, watching them together, fastened on Oriel's mention of angels, recalling something else about angels, and another cup …

All at once other memory came flooding back to him, memory long buried both by his own condition at the time and the design of those responsible—of the long-ago night when their father had died, and the moments just before, when a cup had been prepared in the presence of Beings of such immeasurable power that Javan's knees started to buckle, even thinking about them. He gasped as the returning memory all but overwhelmed him, catching himself on the edge of the bed as Oriel laid Alroy back on the pillows.

As the images flashed before him, Javan knew what
he
must do now, before Alroy slipped into the Nether world and the power never quite uncoiled in him was freed at last in Javan, who was his heir. Clasping his brother's left hand in both of his, he raised it to his lips and bowed his head over it, closing his eyes.

They summoned Archangels to witness what our father did and to escort him through the Gates of Death
, Javan thought, fingering the Ring of Fire that so loosely encircled the third finger and sensing Alroy's fading awareness of the contact.
They summoned them for him, and I must summon them for you, dear brother
.

He made his thoughts a prayer as he lifted his entreaty to the powers that had come before, at the behest of the Deryni who had befriended the Haldane line.

Hear me, mighty ones
, he breathed.
I know not the form by which to invite your presence, but I ask it now, for the sake of him who soon shall cross to your domain. I summon you, Raphael, Lord of Air; Michael, Lord of Fire; Gabriel, Lord of Water; and Uriel, dark Lord of Earth. Be here, I beseech you, to welcome him who shall pass and to carry him swiftly into the loving presence of the Most High
.

To his utter astonishment, listeners seemed to heed his petition. He dared not open his eyes or even raise his head, but in his mind's eye he seemed to sense the vague forms of other presences suddenly surrounding the bed, broad-pinioned and powerful, surely taller than the room could hold, trailing gossamer robes of fog-grey and flame and palest aquamarine and the cool green-black of winter evergreens.

Startled, he let his eyes open the merest slit. The exhausted and wheezing Alroy had sunk back on his pillows and was drifting into the oblivion of the potion Oriel had given him, no longer fighting the fluid that was filling his lungs and soon would drown him. Oriel himself knelt at his side, one hand still resting on the king's arm to monitor, his eyes shifting restlessly across the air above the bed, perhaps sensing at least a little of what Javan was perceiving. A trembling Rhys Michael was bowed over Alroy's right hand, cradling it in both of his, but Javan did not think he Saw.

“He shall give His angels charge over thee,” Javan whispered aloud, returning his attention to Alroy, closing his eyes then as he reached out toward his brother's mind. “Lord, let it be done according to Thy will. Into Thy hands we commend his spirit.”

He could feel Alroy's breathing falter under the trembling link of their clasped hands, growing ever weaker and more labored, but in his inner vision, the spirit essence of his brother seemed finally to rise slowly out of its disease-wracked body to a sitting position, turning its eyes just beyond Javan's right shoulder. In spirit Javan turned as well—and beheld a figure he had not seen in many a year, and never quite like this.

Almost close enough to touch, Javan fancied he could see the regal figure of their father Cinhil, cloaked from shoulder to ankles in a sweeping mantle of Haldane crimson that was cut like a cope. On a head only faintly touched by silver at the temples shone the State Crown of Gwynedd, with its motif of oak leaves and crosses intertwined. He nodded solemnly as his eyes briefly met Javan's; but then all his attention was for Alroy, the expression on his face one of joy and sadness mixed as he held out his arms to his eldest son.

Javan longed to speak to him, but he could not seem to summon up any will to do so. Caught fast in mind and body, he watched numbly as Alroy's spirit rose the rest of the way out of the wasted body and seemed to slide to its feet beside him, laying one spirit hand on his arm and with the other pointing to the physical hand Javan still held—to the ring on the now-relaxing finger.

Then the figure was moving into the embrace of their father and the two images were blurring into one. At the same time, Javan was overwhelmed by the powerful impression of wings buffeting the air around him, stirring to the very depths of his soul, lifting up and away with such force that Javan swayed on his knees, only his grip on Alroy's now-limp hand keeping him grounded to the mortal world. At the very end, he seemed to hear the silvery chime of bells, gradually fading into silence; and when he finally opened his eyes, he had no doubt that Alroy was gone.

Stunned, he forced himself to look around. Oriel apparently had sensed something, for his head was bowed to rest on the edge of the bed, both forearms arched over his head, rocking a little on his knees. Rhys Michael was sobbing unabashedly over the hand he still held.

But Javan dared not spare them any of his attention just yet. One last duty to Alroy remained to be done. Very quietly, and without letting himself think about it too much, he eased the Ring of Fire from Alroy's slack hand and brought it to his lips, bestowing a reverent kiss. Then, silently invoking the witness of Those he had called—Whom he hoped were still there—he slid the ring onto his finger.

A chill shivered up his spine despite the heat, but he felt little else. He wondered if that was all there was to it—though
all
, in his case, might be a very great deal indeed, for he thought that no one else besides a Deryni or a saint could have experienced what he had just experienced. Given the unexpected appearance of his father, he had to wonder that no further memory had returned of what had been done to him—but no time just now to worry overly about
that
.

No, first on the agenda, right now, was to ensure that he was, in fact, to be king; and that involved squaring things—or appearing to square them—with Archbishop Hubert. Time enough, later on, to perhaps reestablish the long-dormant links with his Deryni teachers and see if he could bring his talents to their intended potential.

He slipped the ring back on the dead Alroy's finger and lurched to his feet, intending to go and deal with the sleeping archbishop, but he was hit by such a wave of weariness that he nearly passed out. He jostled the bed as he caught his balance, also rousing Oriel.

“Sire?” the Healer breathed as he raised his head. “Are you all right?”

Swallowing, Javan turned his gaze to focus on the Healer. The moment of light-headedness had passed, but it had reminded him poignantly of his fatigue, already with him when he arrived in Rhemuth and doubtless made worse by what he had just experienced.

“I'll be all right,” he whispered. “Too much exertion, not enough sleep—”

“I can do something about that,” Oriel said.

Javan shook his head. “No time just now. If I take the time to sleep, I may end up sleeping for all eternity.”

“Then let me do something quick and temporary for now,” Oriel said, “and I'll come to you later this morning and give you an hour of Healer's sleep.” He reached across the bed to touch Javan's wrist and assess his condition. “You do need the rest. I don't think you want to face an Accession Council without it.”

A sinking feeling assailed him. Oriel was right. An Accession Council would have to meet as soon as possible. He could delay it for a few hours, but not beyond the afternoon. And there were arrangements to be made for Alroy's lying in state—

“You say you can do something quick?” he said.

Nodding, Oriel came around the foot of the bed and set his hands on the new king's head, thumbs pressing lightly on the eyelids when they closed and fingers cupping up around the temples.

“Relax and think of this as just an ordinary Healing, the way Tavis used to do for you,” the Healer said quietly as Rhys Michael looked up dazedly through his tears. “You'll feel it as a wave of warmth. You may feel a little dizzy for a few seconds.”

Inhaling deeply and then exhaling, Javan let fall his shields, surrendering to the Healer's ministrations. Restoration came as a flood, not just a wave, and made his knees start to buckle, so that Oriel had to catch him under the arm to steady him. But as he found his feet again, bracing himself on the bed, he could sense a new clear-headedness.

“It's called a fatigue-banishing spell,” Oriel murmured, standing back a little to survey him. “Its duration is inversely proportional to the amount of restoration demanded, and it can't be renewed indefinitely. Also, once it wears off, the bottom is going to drop out quite suddenly, and you'll seem to feel even more tired than before I did it. But I'll be back to you by then. This should get you through the next couple of hours.”

Javan nodded, feeling more and more restored as he settled into the spell. “Thank you. I'll remember this.”

Not smiling, Oriel only glanced pointedly at Hubert, still snoring on his stool on the other side of the room. “Just make certain
he
doesn't, or we're all dead.”

Nodding, Javan looked over at the archbishop, then back at Oriel.

“I'll take care of Hubert,” he murmured. “Would you blur all of this for Rhysem?”

“Of course.”

Squaring his shoulders, Javan crossed to the snoring archbishop. Very little tampering would be necessary, for him or for Rhys Michael.

“Archbishop, listen to what I say to you,” Javan said quietly, setting a hand on Hubert's. “You will come with me now. The king is near his end. You have given him the Sacrament, and he received it peacefully. Now he needs only your prayers to speed him on his way.”

The blue eyes fluttered open as Hubert roused, and he gave a little sigh with the effort it cost him to stand. Javan led him to the royal bedside, keeping his controls in place as he released Hubert's hand and knelt once again. The archbishop stood close behind him, hands folded piously before him, and Javan gently took his brother's hand and kissed it.

“I will begin the prayers now, Archbishop, and you will join in and carry on,” Javan whispered, “remembering only that the king's passing was gentle, and that he died in a state of grace.” He drew a deep breath and began.

“Come to his aid, O Saints of God; come forth to meet him, Angels of the Lord, receiving his soul, presenting it to the Most High …”

Blinking, Hubert picked up the versicle, his tone more reverent than Javan had expected, even under control. “May Christ, Who has called you, now receive you, and may the angels bring you to Abraham's bosom.”

“Receiving his soul,” Javan murmured the response, knowing that it already was so, “presenting it unto the Most High.”

“Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord.”

“And let perpetual light shine upon him,” Javan responded, now joined by Rhys Michael and Oriel.

“From the gates of hell—”

“Save his soul, O Lord,” Javan said strongly.

“May he rest in peace.”

“Amen.”

“Let us pray,” Hubert went on, bowing his head over his folded hands. “O Lord, we commend to Thee the soul of Thy servant Alroy, that when he departs from this world, he may live with Thee. By the grace of Thy merciful love wash away the sins that in human frailty he has committed in the conduct of his life. Through Christ our Lord—”

“Amen,” the others responded.

Javan, trusting that Alroy was indeed now in the hands of God, slowly got to his feet and, as Hubert looked at him sharply, took the ring once again from his dead brother's hand and slid it onto his own finger beside his silver signet. Before he could do more, Rhys Michael reached across and took the hand, murmuring “My liege” as he bent pointedly to kiss it in fealty. Ducking his head and throwing caution to the winds, Oriel did the same.

Hubert simply looked on in amazement for several seconds—Javan with no idea what he was going to do, for he was no longer controlled—then ducked his head to Javan in what might be interpreted as a bow.

“You have made your decision then,” the archbishop said, his blue eyes hard and cold. “You will have an earthly crown rather than a heavenly one.”