Javan looked away. “I used to work with a Healer. He was subtle. I’m not afraid of you, but I’m not used to seeing power used quite so—forcefully.”
“Maybe if more of us were forceful, we Deryni wouldn’t be in the dilemma we’re in today,” Guiscard said sharply. “Maybe there wouldn’t be any Custodes Fidei, to ferret out those of my race and destroy them because of what they are.”
“I don’t like them any better than you do,” Javan whispered, “and I’m somewhat responsible for them, because my brother allowed the Order to be formed. I intend to do something about that, but it isn’t going to happen if we stand here arguing all night. Now, will you please take me to Joram, if that’s what we’re here for?”
Obviously taken aback, Guiscard gave him a guarded nod. “I’m sorry, my prince. But I don’t really know Sir Charlan, and I certainly didn’t know the extent to which he’d been prepared. I thought it better to be safe than sorry.”
With that he moved quickly across the room to feel under the armrest of a prie-dieu in the corner. At a soft snick sound, a portion of the paneling to the right drew quietly back. As Guiscard moved to enter the tiny cubicle thus revealed, Javan went to join him, stepping in without prompting and turning to stand with his back to the other man, all too aware of their earlier friction.
“I’m told that you’ve been through this Portal before,” Guiscard murmured, setting a hand on Javan’s shoulder as he closed them into darkness.
“Yes,” Javan whispered, preparing himself for what he did not expect to be a particularly pleasant Portal jump.
“I know that you somehow have shields, too,” Guiscard went on, close beside his ear, both hands now resting on Javan’s shoulders. “Dom Queron said I wasn’t to meddle—just put you under enough to bring you through. After our conversation about Charlan, however, it’s clear you know more than I was led to believe—and that perhaps I was too forceful earlier. Any suggestions?”
The tone was utterly sincere and without resentment, an obvious peace offering, and Javan found himself warming slightly to this brusque young Deryni who obviously was risking a great deal to help him. It had been a while, but all at once he was confident he could let Guiscard far enough past his shields to blank him for the time it took to make the jump. He drew a deep breath and let it out, making a conscious effort to relax more heavily against Guiscard’s chest.
“I’m sure this will be easier for both of us, once we get to know one another better,” he said quietly. “Try it the way you would do if I were trained. They’ve taught me a little. If it doesn’t work, you can put me out whatever way you have to.”
“Fair enough,” Guiscard murmured. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Breathing deeply again, Javan closed his eyes and let his head loll back against the other’s shoulder. As he did, he rolled back his shields as well, inviting Guiscard’s entry to those outer precincts needing access for successful control of a jump. He did not even try to guess their destination, though he had his suspicions.
The other’s control was more rigid than what he was accustomed to, but his reaction apparently was enough to Guiscard’s liking to make the attempt. The swooping, slightly disorienting instant of vertigo was quickly past, and he opened his eyes to a familiar, stone-faced chamber he knew lay within the Michaeline sanctuary.
CHAPTER TEN
I will teach you by the hand of God: that which is with the Almighty will I not conceal.
Job 27:11
There were two of them waiting for him: Joram and Bishop Niallan Trey. It gave Javan a jolt to see them both wearing Michaeline blue, so long absent from Court and from his sight. He could feel tears welling in his eyes as he stepped from the Portal, but Joram rescued him from the moment by drawing him into the embrace Javan had longed for but had never hoped to have from the formerly unbending Joram MacRorie.
“Javan, my liege, my dear, brave prince,” Joram murmured, enfolding him with mind as well as arms. “I was so sorry to hear about Alroy.”
Somehow the words drained away the sadness, made the relief a positive joy rather than a surrendering to grief and fear. Drawing back at last, Javan was able to meet the other’s eyes as one man to another, king to loyal ally. He let his arms slip down Joram’s to clasp both his hands, glorying in his great good fortune to have such a friend, as Joram, smiling, bent his golden head to kiss each royal hand in wordless homage.
“Father Joram, it’s good to see you,” Javan murmured, looking into the grey eyes. “It’s been too long.”
“Aye, my prince, far too long,” Joram replied. Remembering himself, he turned to beckon Niallan forward with a glance. “Here is Bishop Niallan to greet you as well,” he went on. “We thought to keep the welcoming party small, this first time.”
As Niallan, too, bent to kiss the royal hand, Joram cast his glance beyond Javan at the waiting Guiscard.
“How long is it safe to keep him here?” he asked.
“Perhaps half an hour?” Guiscard replied. “I’ve left Ascelin and Charlan asleep in the study. They’re safe enough, unless someone should come—though that isn’t likely, at this hour. If you’d rather, though, I can wait with them, just to make sure, and one of you can bring his Highness back through.”
“That’s probably a wise idea,” Joram agreed. “But let Niallan Read you before you go, so we’ll have as much background as possible.”
At Guiscard’s nod of agreement, Joram took Javan’s arm and led him out of the Portal chamber and across the corridor to the little octagonal chapel.
“How did you and Guiscard get on?” Joram asked as he closed the door behind them and turned to look at Javan.
Javan shrugged and managed a shy grin. “A little shaky at first, but we’ll be fine. He doesn’t have the subtlety of you or Tavis or—Evaine.” The speaking of her name drew his gaze irresistibly toward the front of the chapel, where several of those who had championed his family’s cause had been laid to rest more than three years before. “Is she—”
Joram shook his head. “Not here. Elsewhere. Someday, perhaps, I’ll take you there. We moved Rhys there, as well.”
“Oh.”
Joram glanced at the floor, obviously uncomfortable, then looked up at Javan again. “We daren’t take much time tonight. I had—hoped to have this first reunion under less stress. It’s been a very long time.”
“I know.” Javan paused. “And nothing happened when Alroy died, Joram. I was with him, I put on the Ring of Fire—” He held out his hand to display the ring. “But I don’t feel any different. Evaine said something was supposed to happen.”
Joram drew a deep breath, suddenly solemn. “There are—things that need to be done, to properly trigger what was set,” he said. “Evaine had begun to reach that conclusion, while trying to discover why you began developing some of the Haldane powers but Alroy didn’t. She left notes.”
“Then you know?”
“Not precisely. But over the past two or three years, I’ve carried on with her research, trying to prepare for this day—and as you know, I’m the only one left who was present when your father set the potential in you and your brothers.” He sighed.
“I’ve let Tavis in on what we did—it was only fair, since he was peripherally involved—and I’ve also told Queron. They’ve agreed to assist us in what needs to be done. I couldn’t get either one here for tonight, but they’ll be here by tomorrow night. I’d like you to come back then, and we’ll—see if Evaine and I guessed right.”
“To awaken my father’s full powers in me?” Javan whispered.
“Yes.”
Javan exhaled with a long, soft sigh, then moved distractedly to one side to sink down on one of the stone benches set into the walls. “I faced down the dragons in my first Council meeting yesterday, Joram. I won the first round, but I’ve got some powerful-opposition and nobody very experienced who’s totally on my side. How much do the de Courcys know about me? And how have they managed to keep it secret that they’re
Deryni, in a baronial family?”
Joram smiled and went to sit beside the king. “Etienne’s lands are in the south, where people don’t pay that much attention to such things, and his family have always had good survival instincts.
“But we really haven’t time to go into all of this now—not in words, at any rate. That’s why I must ask you for something I’ve no right to ask at a time like this—except that I’m going to ask anyway, even though I know it’s going to frighten you.”
Javan stiffened a little, for he thought he knew what Joram was about to say.
“Do you remember the time that Evaine brought you here and did a strip-Read followed by a briefing, and Queron and I assisted?” Joram said softly.
Javan shivered and looked away, focusing on the Presence Lamp above the altar, for he remembered it very well—and the pounding headache afterward. But he had learned from the experience; and the exchange of information had been well worth the temporary discomfort.
“Can you—do it by yourself?” he murmured, after an awkward swallow.
“Yes. And I hope we’ll both be better at it this time,” Joram said. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it was important—for tomorrow night, in specific, as well as the future in general. There are lots of things we both need to know—three years’ worth.”
Swallowing again, Javan nodded, not daring to look up at Joram. He had always been a little afraid of the cool, controlled Michaeline priest, but Joram was Evaine’s brother—and Saint Camber’s son. “All right. What do you want me to do?”
“The more you can relax, the easier it’s going to be for both of us,” Joram said, setting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you swing your feet around onto the bench and lean back against me?”
Nodding a little nervously, Javan did as he was told, laying his head in Joram’s lap and folding his hands across his breast. He closed his eyes and tried to will himself to relax as the priest’s hands curved gently on his brow.
Remember everything you’ve ever learned from any of us, especially Evaine, came Joram’s gentle instruction, directly in his mind. Try to let yourself go very, very deep—even deeper than you did that other time. I’ll do my best not to hurt you, but you need to help me. The deeper you can go, the faster I can draw and the less discomfort you’ll have. Relax now, and let it happen …
It had been a long time, but the memory came flooding back of how to do it. He could feel himself sinking with an almost physical vertigo, spiraling deeper and deeper, more and more detached from conscious awareness of anything to do with the physical—and Joram was right with him, close and supportive, gently holding him on a steady course toward the centerpoint, urging him on, lightly pushing him now, deeper, deeper …
He hardly noticed when Joram began to draw on the memories, for the pressure was smooth and steady. He flashed on an earlier image of a vessel being emptied; but rather than the contents being sucked out through holes punched in his shields, it was as if his mind had become a sieve, and gravity alone drew all to the lowest point and out, where Joram—absorbed it?
The reversal was no more traumatic—a gentle welling of new material in a vessel now sound once more, perhaps even stronger than before. A growing heaviness came with it, but it was not the burning heaviness of molten lead he had experienced that other time. Rather, it was like the sated fullness that comes after eating well—or perhaps eating just a trifle too well, overindulging—but it was small enough discomfort, especially compared to Javan’s previous experience.
As Joram brought him back, his heartbeat was steady and his breathing still light. At no time had he been at all afraid or more than mildly uncomfortable. He opened his eyes just before Joram did and caught the instant of undisguised satisfaction in the other’s gaze as Joram blinked and focused.
“How do you feel?” Joram asked.
Grinning shyly, Javan heaved himself to a sitting position and stretched, indulging an enormous yawn. Whatever apprehensions he had retained about working with Joram had utterly dissolved away in the aftermath of their rapport, and he sensed a wealth of new information just at the edge of consciousness, ready to be examined and assimilated.
“I think both of us must be getting better at this,” he said. “I feel—stuffed, if you can say that about thoughts. But it didn’t hurt.”
Joram smiled and pulled a tiny twist of parchment from under his cincture, handing it to Javan. “You’re going to want a good night’s sleep to sort things out, though. Dissolve this in a little wine and drink it just before you go to bed.”
“What is it?” Javan asked, trying to read the tiny writing on one of the tails.
“A light sedative, mostly,” Joram replied. “I had Niallan’s Healer make it up. It will also take care of any vestigial headache that might creep up on you, if any afterreaction sets in. Judging from your condition right now, I don’t expect anything dramatic, but you do need a good, uninterrupted night of sleep.”
“I’m in favor of that,” Javan said around a yawn. “I still haven’t caught up from the last couple of days.”
“You’d better get back, then,” Joram said, rising and helping Javan to his feet. “A lot from what we’ve just done will become clearer once you’ve slept. And you need to be rested for tomorrow night. Have Guiscard bring you back at about the same time and tell him to be prepared to cover for about an hour.”
Javan cocked his head at the priest. “He’s not to know I can use the Portal myself?”
“That’s right. Your instincts are good. It’s best not to let anyone know too much about what you can and cannot do. He knows you can Truth-Read and that you have shields, because that couldn’t be helped—and Niallan will have dealt with any overcurious tendencies when he took Guiscard’s report, and any necessary explanation about Charlan.
“Don’t misunderstand; Guiscard’s utterly loyal and trustworthy, and he and his father really would die for you—but for now, the less he knows, the less he can spill if disaster strikes. Fair enough?”
“I suppose so,” Javan murmured. He shivered as they walked toward the door out of the chapel, tucking the twist of parchment into his belt pouch, and Joram laid an arm around his shoulders.
“It’s going to be all right, my prince,” Joram murmured. “You’re doing just fine. Your handling of the Council meeting was nothing short of brilliant. Just take things slowly.”
They crossed the corridor back into the Portal chamber, and Niallan rose from the chair where he had been sitting, steel-grey hair and close-clipped beard glinting in the light of a single candle by the chair.
“Is Guiscard all right?” Joram asked as he guided Javan toward the Portal square.
Niallan nodded. “He’s fine. He’s impressed with our fledgling king and can’t figure out about the shields, but he’s about convinced that perhaps Truth-Reading and other quasi-Deryni talents go along with the Divine Right of the king. Haldane kings, at any rate. Of course I did nothing to disabuse him of that notion.”
“And probably a fair lot to reinforce it,” Joram said with a smile. “Which is as it should be, at least for now. So on that note, I suppose we’d best—”
“Before Javan leaves,” Niallan said, interrupting with a raised eyebrow, “Jesse’s arrived while you were otherwise occupied. He’s in the next room. This might be a good time to make introductions.”
The look he exchanged with Joram suggested that more than words passed between the two, but Javan could detect nothing.
“Jesse’s here?” Joram said. “This is fortuitous. By all means, ask him to join us.”
As Niallan passed outside, Javan looked askance at Joram. “Who’s Jesse?”
Joram smiled. “Someone you should know. He’s the son and heir of Gregory, Earl of Ebor—not that the title means much, these days, with most of the Deryni titles being attainted. He used to ride patrol with my nephews, Davin and Ansel. Now he’s my liaison with Ansel—and just come from him, I suspect. Ah, there you are, Jess
e. Welcome back. How long can you stay?”
The keen-eyed young man at Niallan’s elbow looked to be about twenty, lean and graceful, a sword at his side and an open-throated white shirt tucked into tan leather riding breeches. His brown hair was pulled back in a queue, and flecks of gold stirred in the depths of brown eyes that appeared to miss little. He was not much taller than Javan, but he had more muscle to him. Bright white teeth flashed in his suntanned face as he cast a smile in Joram’s direction and, recognizing Javan, made him a respectful bow.
“That depends on how long you need me,” Jesse said easily. “And this, I presume, is our new king.”
“It is, indeed. Javan Haldane, King of Gwynedd, may I present Sir Jesse MacGregor, who should have been Master of Ebor, except that he and his father have been attainted for being Deryni,” Joram said.
As Javan extended his hand, Jesse clasping it lightly as he bent in smiling homage, Joram clamped his two hands around their clasped ones and looked Javan in the eyes.
“Jesse is another whose touch you should learn, my prince,” he said quietly. “The time is not ideal, but I suggest that a brief rapport would be to both your advantage, since you’ll almost certainly have cause to work together in the future. He’s very, very good,” he added. “And he knows about you.”
Javan fought down a momentary panic and exhaled softly, shifting his gaze to Jesse’s. Why did Joram keep springing these things on him unexpectedly? Javan knew exactly why, but it was unnerving all the same. At least this Jesse did not look as formidable as any of the senior Deryni with whom Javan had been learning to deal.
The young knight had straightened at Joram’s words, his hand now clasping Javan’s more firmly, even within the encirclement of Joram’s two. Brown eyes met grey without guile or demand, simply waiting for Javan to make the next move. As Joram’s hands fell away, he and Niallan moving back out of Javan’s line of vision, Javan dared to make that move, bringing his left hand very deliberately to clasp over his and Jesse’s joined ones, not allowing himself to break eye contact. Somehow, it seemed easier with someone nearer his own age, even though he knew Jesse must be very experienced indeed.