“I—” All at once, Faelan’s hand darted to his sleeve, feeling for the wound that was no longer there. Simultaneously he realized he was lying on his back without pain—and immediately guessed what had happened.
“He—already did it,” he whispered, fearful eyes meeting Javan’s in shocked betrayal. “I didn’t think—”
“You weren’t in any condition to think,” Javan said quietly. “Nothing can be done about the blood you lost other than to feed you up and give you time to recover, but there was no point to enduring the rest. I’m very sorry you had to suffer that for my sake. The least I could do was to have you healed.”
Swallowing audibly, Faelan turned his face to the wall. “That—doesn’t solve the ultimate problem, Sire,” he whispered. “Father Paulin is looking for any excuse to discredit you. Anything you say or do that might help him, I’m sworn to report. And even if I broke my oath, he’d—know.”
“Oh, he wouldn’t know,” Javan said confidently. “But his new Deryni might know—mightn’t he, Father?”
Faelan froze, alarm and consternation pinching the man’s sharp features.
“I didn’t tell you that,” he whispered.
“No, you didn’t. In fact, it was precisely what you didn’t tell me that first tipped me off. I know you aren’t responsible,” he added, at Faelan’s growing look of confusion and fear. “Oriel, let’s get to the bottom of this.”
Before Faelan could draw breath to cry out, Javan had set his hand on the priest’s forehead and seized control, sending him plummeting into unconsciousness. Oriel swooped in right behind him, delving deep as Javan withdrew. Charlan had surged forward as he fathomed Javan’s intention, fearing physical resistance or an outcry on Faelan’s part, but now he retreated to the door again at the king’s gesture.
After a moment Oriel raised his head, smiling as he opened his eyes.
“Sire, you must be the luckiest man in all Christendom,” he murmured. “I can’t speak directly for the talents of Paulin’s Deryni, but he didn’t spend too much time on this one. There are traces of one fairly superficial Reading—and of course nothing awkward showed up, because Faelan didn’t know anything. There was also a definite compulsion set to prevent him speaking of that part of his ‘discipline.’ But no attempt was made to block the memory. Cocky bastard. I suppose he thought it wasn’t necessary—or maybe that it would just reinforce the intimidation.”
“Can you undo it?” Javan asked.
Oriel nodded. “I could. I don’t think it’s necessary, though. The less tampering, the better. It’s enough that I’ll have to cover tonight’s work. Before, there was nothing interesting to Read. I can’t say that now.”
“Well, cover it, then,” Javan said. “But don’t hurt him. I want an ally, not a victim.”
“Just give me a few minutes,” the Healer said, kneeling to lay both hands on the sleeping man’s forehead.
After a few minutes he withdrew, shifting one hand down to lightly encircle Faelan’s near wrist.
“Truth-Read him when I bring him out,” he murmured. “I think that’s taken care of things.”
Faelan was silent and still for several seconds more. Then he stirred and opened his eyes, all the fear gone, not seeming to notice Oriel’s touch.
“Sire,” he murmured, lifting his eyes to Javan. “I must have fallen asleep. Pray, pardon me. I should have been more vigilant.”
Javan shook his head slightly and smiled. “You were very tired after your ride. The rest was good for you. Were you asleep long?”
“Since midafternoon, I think,” Faelan replied, looking beyond them at the darkened window embrasure and frowning. “It must be very late. I intended to rise and say the Vesper Office. Now it’s—”
“Well past Compline,” Javan supplied. “You remember nothing of the past little while, do you?”
Faelan looked at him quizzically. “Should I, Sire?”
For answer, Javan merely glanced aside at Oriel, who bowed his head briefly over Faelan’s hand. All at once Faelan gasped, remembering all. Javan could see the flood of returning memory in the priest’s eyes, shocked and stunned, the realization of his body’s healing, the significance of the hand still clasped to his wrist—and the reaction gradually giving way to guarded hope.
“I—couldn’t remember any of this,” Faelan breathed.
“No,” Javan said. “And if you can’t remember something, you can’t tell a lie about it.”
“But—wouldn’t he be able to detect what you’d done?” Faelan whispered, now addressing Oriel directly.
“Not by simple Truth-Reading,” Oriel replied. “Probably not even by direct probe, unless anyone had reason to suspect there’d been tampering. And I don’t intend to leave you with any memory of what’s happened here tonight.”
Faelan swallowed. “They’ll know you healed me.”
“Paulin will expect it,” Javan said. “He told me quite blatantly that you’d been bled to relieve ill humours, that you hadn’t been feeling well lately, and I told him I was going to have Oriel take a look at you. But he doesn’t have to know that we know the true circumstances. You won’t remember telling me, and I’ll pretend not to have guessed. You’ll simply take up your duties as my chaplain—saying daily Mass in the Chapel Royal, hearing confessions, accompanying me at Court functions when appropriate—the usual things.”
“But—”
“None of this will require any effort on your part,” Oriel assured him. “You won’t retain any memory of this conversation. All you’ll remember is that you have a kind and honorable master who has never been observed to do anything to which his critics might take exception. When you go for your monthly sessions at the abbey, you’ll have forgotten anything you may have seen or heard that shouldn’t be passed on.”
Faelan swallowed, suddenly apprehensive again, and turned his face slightly toward the wall.
“Sire, I don’t want to betray you,” he whispered. “Can he make me forget the fear, as well? That’s the worst—knowing that they could kill me any time the fancy took them. If they bleed me again—”
Javan set his hand briefly over Oriel’s, clasped on the priest’s wrist. “You know I can’t promise that they won’t,” he said quietly, “if only as a token reminder of how totally you’re in their power when you’re there at the abbey. But they aren’t going to take as much as they did last time—they can’t, on anything like a monthly basis, and still have you able to function as they want. Unfortunately, we don’t dare tamper with that memory. You’re going to have to live with that one.”
Faelan closed his eyes briefly and made himself take a deep breath, reluctantly resigned to the logic.
“You’ll have to expect that Paulin’s Deryni probably will be present at future debriefings, too,” Javan went on, “but since you’ll be utterly open and sincere in your reporting, it shouldn’t be anything like before. If all he does is Truth-Read you, you won’t even be aware of it. Once we’ve established that you intend to cooperate, we might even manufacture an occasional tidbit for you to feed them, just to reassure them that you’re keeping your eyes and ears open in their behalf. Naturally, I don’t expect these trips back to the abbey to be pleasant—they’ll certainly be frightening at times—but I hope that the worst they’ll do is threaten. I wish I could offer you something more positive, but I can’t.”
“He should rest now, Sire,” Oriel said quietly, when it was clear that further discussion was only going to further fuel Faelan’s fears. “I’ll make this as quick as I can.”
He had already seized control as he spoke, so Faelan could only flash the king a look of helpless trust just before unconsciousness claimed him.
“Set that I’d like him to begin saying daily Mass in the Chapel Royal directly after Prime,” Javan said, withdrawing his hand as Oriel prepared to delve deep. “To cover our conversation in the garden this afternoon, say that I inquired concerning his health—about which he was noncommittal, save that the ride fr
om Arx Fidei exhausted him—and that I then merely outlined his expected duties and sent him off to rest. That’s essentially what I told Paulin. We can make up the rest as we go along.”
Oriel nodded as he closed his eyes. “It shall be done, Sire,” he whispered.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Forget not thy friend in thy mind …
—Ecclesiasticus 37:6
All was still and silent as Javan and Charlan made their way back along the short stretch of corridor separating the priest’s quarters from the royal apartments. Oriel, his task quickly completed, had been released to return to his own quarters, lest his absence be noted and remarked upon. Two senior serjeants came to attention as king and aide approached the door, one of them reaching aside to raise the latch and push the door open. Charlan pulled it closed behind them. Guiscard was waiting in one of the chairs beside the trestle table set in the center of the room, a rack of candles at his elbow, and came to his feet as the two entered.
“All’s well?” he said quietly.
“Aye.” Javan sighed and flopped into a chair opposite. “Apparently Paulin does have a tame Deryni out at Arx Fidei—or did, as recently as a few days ago. Faelan’s going to require careful handling, but I think it can be managed. Until we know more, I don’t want anyone but Oriel touching him.”
“You’d best fill in your visitor on what you’ve learned, then,” Guiscard said, glancing pointedly toward the door to the sleeping chamber, which Javan suddenly realized was closed. “You didn’t tell me to expect him this early, so I very nearly had heart failure when I opened the door and saw him. He’s disguised as a Custodes monk.”
Slowly Javan got back to his feet.
“He’s already here?” he whispered.
“Aye, waiting for the pair of you,” Guiscard replied, moving toward the door and beckoning them to follow. “He’s already put me through my paces—sort of a trial run for tomorrow night.”
He threw open the door to darkness; only a single rushlight burned beside the great, canopied state bed. Guiscard stepped inside, waiting for them to join him. Javan did so warily, standing his ground as a shadow detached itself from the murky darkness near the garderobe entrance, and Guiscard pulled the bedroom door closed behind them. Beside him, Charlan had one hand on the hilt of his dagger, though steel would have been meager defense against any of the men Javan was expecting.
“Who’s there?” the king found himself whispering.
“It’s Jesse, Sire,” said a voice he had heard before, as familiar shields flared and briefly brushed his and a Deryni aura brightened around the face of a figure in Custodes black.
Despite the reassurance, Javan had to look twice to be sure. Jesse looked nothing like the other time Javan had seen him, brown hair now cut close around his ears and tonsured at the crown, warrior’s erect form looking almost a little stoop-shouldered in the stiffened scapular and pushed-back cowl of a Custodes monk.
“I’m afraid I gave Guiscard a bit of a scare,” Jesse said with a faint smile, “for which I apologize. He tells me you may have gotten wind of a new Deryni collaborator—working for the Custodes, of all things. Can you add anything to that?”
“Well, it’s confirmed that the Custodes do have a Deryni working for them,” Javan replied. “We don’t know anything yet about him personally—I’ll let you and Joram sort that out—but Oriel has taken remedial action that should hold, for the time being. Father Faelan—”
“Guiscard gave me the priest’s background,” Jesse said. “Maybe I’d better just Read the details. It won’t take long.”
“I hardly had any contact myself,” Javan began. “Oriel—”
“Just lay your hands on mine and close your eyes,” Jesse said, smiling and upturning his palms to receive Javan’s. “I know you’re still nervous about this sort of thing, but practice will make it easier, believe me. Drop your shields and focus on the contacts you’ve had with Faelan—no need to be anxious. Allow me to guide the process. If there’s any physical sensation at all, you’ll feel this as a faint tickling sort of sensation just behind your eyes, nothing more.”
Javan obeyed. For a brief, interminable instant, time seemed to stand still. A vague sensation not unlike vertigo accompanied a profound stilling of everything not connected with the hapless Faelan. He felt the deft whisper of intrusion as his shields were breached, but by then he could not bring himself to care.
After a moment Jesse released him, glancing briefly beyond him at the watching Guiscard—and at Charlan, standing quietly beside Guiscard and now controlled by him, in this potentially frightening situation.
“You were right not to let anyone but Oriel touch your priest, until we’re sure what we’ve got,” Jesse said, returning his gaze to Javan. “If he’s clean, as it appears, we can take steps to keep him that way. If he isn’t—well, it doesn’t appear that Oriel’s done anything that can’t be explained by usual Healer procedures. And if necessary, we’ll simply have to deal with Faelan.”
Javan shivered. “You mean kill him.”
“If it becomes necessary,” Jesse replied, “but you know we’ll try to avoid that. Meanwhile, I’d like to use both him and Oriel in tomorrow night’s working. It will give me a chance for a close look at both of them—and I can call in reinforcements, once the Portal’s set, if extraordinary measures prove necessary.”
Like killing him, Javan thought, closing his eyes briefly. But he said, “Do you think it will be possible to save him?”
“Sire, that’s a question I can’t possibly answer yet,” Jesse said. “I’ll certainly do what I can for him. It will be tricky, because any tampering on our part has to stand up to direct Deryni scrutiny on a regular basis.” He cocked his head at Javan in question. “I don’t suppose there’s some other priest who could serve as your chaplain, who would be less prone to Custodes meddling?”
Javan grimaced. “Joram or Niallan or Queron are hardly available—or suitable, by current legislation. And just about any priest I name from my own experience of the last few years is going to be a Custodes priest and subject to the same kinds of scrutiny as Faelan. Any priest who’s acceptable to me is going to be suspect.”
“I take your point,” Jesse said, nodding. “Very well, we’ll see what can be done with Father Faelan. If he’s clean, the whole matter becomes academic. We won’t worry about the alternative for now. We’ll use him to pull power for setting the Portal, and then, while we’ve got him under, I’ll simply do a general tidying up and bury some extra safeguards. Neither he nor Paulin’s Deryni will ever know.”
Javan blinked at him in amazement. “You can do that? I mean, it’s that easy?”
“Well, doing what I just suggested takes more time than just the telling,” Jesse said with a grin, “but it isn’t difficult, if you’re dealing with humans. Speaking of which, let’s have a look at your Charlan,” he said, gesturing to Guiscard to bring him over. “I don’t anticipate any problem, since you’ve already been working with him, but we need to be introduced. Guiscard, give control over to Javan, if you will. I’ll take it through him, when I’m ready.”
Wordlessly Guiscard brought the entranced Charlan to stand before the king, drawing back as Javan brushed the young knight’s wrist and took control. At Jesse’s direction, Javan brought Charlan back to normal consciousness.
“Sir Charlan, meet Sir Jesse,” he said quietly. “He’ll be directing the setting of the Portal tomorrow night.”
“Hello, Charlan,” Jesse said.
Charlan blinked once, his gaze flicking over Jesse’s Deryni aura, then turned his attention back to the king, an odd little smile curving at his lips.
“This is amazing,” he said softly. “You’re blocking my fear, aren’t you?”
“Yes. But there really is nothing to be afraid of,” Javan said.
“I know that,” Charlan agreed, nodding. “At least it’s easy to say that, standing here like this.”
Smiling, Jesse stepped within touching distanc
e of the young knight. Dark and fair, they yet were two of a kind, seasoned warriors both, very near in age. The two studied one another for a long moment, measuring, weighing, after which Jesse nodded and very deliberately folded his hands behind his back.
“In future, I hope it will be easy to say that without the controls,” he said. “I’d like to show you what will happen tomorrow night, so you don’t need to be afraid. May I?”
Charlan drew a cautious breath. “You’re asking my permission?”
“Of course. You’re an ally, not an enemy.”
“All right.”
Slowly, casually, Jesse brought his hands back into view.
“It will all begin by having Javan take you to a deeply relaxed state, exactly as he’s done so many times before. Then I’ll set up a preliminary link like this.” He clasped his hands lightly to Charlan’s head, thumbs resting on the temples. “You may feel a—sort of a sticky sensation just at the top of your head. That’s the connection being made. You see, it isn’t frightening at all. And if I need to draw, this is what it will feel like.”
Nothing outward happened except that Charlan’s eyes widened momentarily and then fluttered closed. After a moment he opened them again, looking slightly bemused, and Jesse took away his hands, apparently pleased.
“You did that very well,” he said. “When we actually do the deed, you might lose consciousness briefly, but it would only be for a little while. That doesn’t frighten you, does it?”
Charlan blinked and stared hard at Jesse, glanced briefly at Javan, then looked back at the Deryni.
“No, it doesn’t,” he said just a little defiantly.
“Which is not entirely true,” Jesse said with a smile, “but you’ve proved admirably that you can function even with your fear—which is rare enough in any man, human or Deryni. Sire, you’ve taught him well.”
Javan snorted. “He’s taught himself well. Up until about a week ago, he didn’t have any choice in the matter. But I’ve already apologized for that.”
“You didn’t need to apologize,” Charlan said. “You did what you had to do. I’m only glad I managed to be a help rather than a hindrance, whether or not I was aware of it at the time.” He glanced at Jesse.