King Javan’s Year

  That night Javan had Rhys Michael to supper in his apartments, for his brother had commented on the exchanges in Council that afternoon regarding discrepancies in the records of the regency, and also the Ramos queries. Javan, in turn, hoped to ferret out some inkling of his brother’s feelings about their last private encounter, now that Michaela had been gone from Court for more than a week. He also had decided it was time to acquaint his brother with the bare bones of the Faelan story, so he would understand at least that aspect of Javan’s growing hostility toward Paulin.

  He told Rhys Michael about Faelan over a supper of roast fowl and meat pasties, with cheese and fruit to follow—how the innocent Father Faelan had been interrogated and even tortured at Arx Fidei before coming to Court, for no other reason than the hope of winkling out information about his friendship with Javan and why Javan should want this particular priest as his confessor. Rhys Michael found it inconceivable that monastic disciplines should have been applied for the purpose of intimidation, to force Faelan’s betrayal not only of that friendship but of the seal of the confessional.

  “They were going to bleed him to death?” Rhys Michael asked, unable to believe what he was hearing.

  “They made him think they were.” Javan took a sip of wine. “Believe me, there are few more helpless feelings in the world than watching your life-blood pump out of your veins and knowing that if it suits them, those in authority over you have the power to forbid a halt.”

  “But surely they wouldn’t actually do it,” Rhys Michael whispered.

  “That depends on what they had to gain. In Faelan’s case, certainly they stopped short. They wanted to set him up to spy on me. They didn’t stop with the minution, though. After they’d weakened his resistance, through fasting, scourging, and then blood-letting, they drugged him and let a Deryni have a go at interrogating him.”

  Rhys Michael’s eyes got very round. “They have a Deryni?”

  “Paulin does,” Javan said uneasily. “This is a recent development. I don’t know much about him except that he’s called Dimitri. Fortunately, he doesn’t seem to have done much to Faelan besides Truth-Read him during questioning by Lior and Serafin. But even if there weren’t a Dimitri, there’s still the threat of the other things they can do to him. As you can imagine, it isn’t a situation Faelan was eager to go back to. But he went—out of loyalty to me. And now he’s late coming back.”

  Rhys Michael swallowed hard and sat back in his chair, obviously thinking about what Javan had just told him. He was going easy on the wine tonight, apparently still sobered by his last interview with his brother and what had been said about his drinking. After a few minutes he reached across to pull a grape from a bunch on a pewter tray, popping it distractedly into his mouth.

  “It’s beginning to sound as if the Custodes are your real enemies, rather than the former regents,” he said thoughtfully.

  Javan raised an eyebrow and sat back, toying with the stem of his goblet. He, too, was watching his intake tonight, to be certain he kept his edge for this conversation. Other than an initial cup to start the meal, he had been drinking his wine well watered, the same as Rhys Michael.

  “I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” he said. “Unfortunately, there’s a fair amount of overlap. Hubert is still on the Council and will support the Custodes in whatever they do. Regardless of what else happens, I’m stuck with him until he dies, because the Archbishop-Primate of Gwynedd has to sit on the royal Council. With Albertus as Earl Marshal, that gives them another powerful voice. I could get rid of him, but the hard fact is that I don’t have any other senior military commander who’s as good. Rhun probably is, but I’d rather have just about anybody as Earl Marshal besides him. I’ll not soon forget what he did to the Gabrilites four years ago. Besides, he was one of the regents.

  “Oriss is also part of the old Council, even though he wasn’t a regent, and he’s subordinate to Hubert—and hence, biddable by the Custodes. Thank God Murdoch is no longer a factor. Tammaron’s basically a decent sort, but he’s only one man. I haven’t got anybody among my hand-picked men who are as senior as any of the men I’ve mentioned.”

  He deliberately had not mentioned Manfred and felt his heart sink a little when Rhys Michael noticed and mentioned it.

  “You don’t trust Earl Manfred either?” his brother said.

  Javan shrugged. “He’s Hubert’s brother. If it came down to a choice, to whom do you think he’d give his loyalty? Not to me, I can assure you.”

  Rhys Michael broke a small bunch of grapes off the larger bunch and used his teeth to casually pull off an individual grape.

  “That’s another reason you were glad to see him leave Rhemuth, then, isn’t it?” he said. “It got you rid of two problems in one fell swoop.”

  “Are you trying to get me to reconsider about Michaela?” Javan said, certain that was exactly what his brother intended.

  Rhys Michael sucked another grape into his mouth and crushed it against the roof of his mouth.

  “I really don’t think that issue is a part of all this,” he said. “I’ll grant you that the Custodes are turning out to be far more dangerous than anyone ever dreamed—”

  “Not more dangerous than I’d ever dreamed,” Javan muttered. “I knew they were trouble from the day they were instituted.”

  “Well, they aren’t Michaelines,” Rhys Michael conceded. “Not that the Michaelines didn’t occasionally cause trouble, too.”

  “Never like this,” Javan said. “Whatever else anyone may say about them, they were never anything but loyal to the Crown.”

  “But some of them were Deryni,” Rhys Michael said uncomfortably.

  “Yes, and I know of only one Deryni Michaeline who ever betrayed a Haldane—and he was forced to it.”

  Rhys Michael cocked his head in question. “Who was that?”

  “A priest named Humphrey of Gallareaux. Tavis told me about him once. It was before our father had taken back his throne. King Imre broke this Humphrey utterly and set his own compulsions on the poor man. When our eldest brother was born—the one before Alroy—this same Humphrey contrived to be at his baptism, assisting the presiding priest. The baby’s name was to be Aidan Alroy Camber.”

  “I thought he’d died at birth,” Rhys Michael said.

  “No, he was almost three weeks old. The baptismal salt was poisoned. Shock at Aidan’s death somehow triggered our father’s powers, and he knew who was responsible. It was the first time he ever used his powers, and he used them to kill his son’s slayer.” He drew a deep breath. “It wasn’t Humphrey’s fault, though. Just as it wasn’t Faelan’s fault the Custodes tried to use him.”

  Rhys Michael was shaking his head.

  “Our enemies do use the innocent, Rhysem. Don’t think they don’t,” Javan went on. “It doesn’t matter whether those enemies are human or Deryni. Evil men have no qualms about sacrificing anything and anyone who will serve their purpose, whether it’s good priests like Humphrey and Faelan or even more helpless victims—women and children, even infants.

  “Think of Declan’s wife and sons—innocent lives snuffed out with no more thought than you or I would snuff out a candle. Or Gieselle MacLean, who I’m virtually certain was put to death at the regents’ orders, so that her sister could be married off to one of the regents’ sons. And they’re using Michaela to try to get an heir from you, after which you and possibly she, as well, are quite likely to end up the same way as Gieselle or Declan’s wife and children or our little brother Aidan.”

  Rhys Michael stared at Javan in silence for several stunned seconds, then gave a low, nervous laugh.

  “Your imagination is running rampant,” he murmured. “You’re trying to scare me, so I’ll give her up.”

  “If all I wanted to do was scare you,” Javan replied in a very calm voice, “I could come up with something to turn your hair white and probably make you wet yourself.” He held out one hand and let lightning crackle between his fingers. “Do you want me
to have a go at it?”

  Rhys Michael swallowed audibly, shaking his head as Javan lifted the hand higher and the vague suggestion of something started to materialize above the upturned palm.

  “That’s all right. I believe you,” he whispered, exhaling softly as Javan lowered his hand and the fire died away. “But do you really think Paulin has done something to Father Faelan, and that’s why they haven’t come back?”

  “I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see,” Javan replied. “For obvious reasons, I can’t inquire too closely. I don’t even want them to know how much I know of what they did to him that first time. But if they’ve killed him …”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  How long shall they utter and speak hard things? and all the workers of iniquity boast themselves?

  —Psalms 94:4

  Fortunately, Javan did not have to decide what he would do if Faelan was dead, for Paulin and his party returned the very next day, a quiet and timorous Faelan among them. Rhys Michael gave his brother an I-told-you-so glance as soon as the message of the arrival had been announced.

  It was not until that evening, after Solemn Vespers in the Chapel Royal, that Javan could contrive an excuse to speak to his chaplain in private. Paulin had taken himself off with Hubert immediately after the close of the afternoon’s Council meeting, but Father Lior had taken it upon himself to attend Faelan’s service that night.

  “Father, I should like you to hear my confession,” Javan said, pointedly raising his voice slightly when Father Lior would have approached from where he had been kneeling in the back of the chapel.

  Lior immediately backed off, and Faelan stood meekly aside to let the king go ahead of him into the chapel’s sacristy. The faithful Charlan took up a casual watch just outside, and Guiscard remained in the chapel as well, kneeling humbly to one side with his arms folded on his chest and dark head bowed in one hand, apparently deep in prayer but actually keeping an eye on Lior.

  As had become a pattern over the past month, Faelan went immediately to a little stool beside the prie-dieu where he usually knelt for his own devotions before and after saying Mass, and where he often heard confessions. Javan knelt in the suppliant’s position, to keep up appearances if anyone should get past Charlan. Until he had heard Faelan’s account the way the Custodes intended it to be told, he did not intend to intrude anything of his true relationship with Faelan.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” he whispered. “Are you well?”

  Faelan had clasped his hands in his lap and bowed his head, as if he had actually intended to hear Javan’s confession, but he did not raise his head, only twining his fingers tightly together.

  “They—did me no physical harm this time, Sire,” he murmured.

  Without replying, Javan clamped one hand over Faelan’s joined ones to prevent retreat and slid the fingers of his other hand up first one and then the other sleeve of Faelan’s habit, checking for signs that he had been bled. Faelan stiffened but allowed it, not relaxing until Javan returned his hands to the prie-dieu’s armrest between them. The priest’s expression was bleak and troubled as he raised his face toward the king.

  “I do not know whether I can continue to serve you in this way, Sire.” The words were whispered, unsteady.

  “What did they do to you?”

  Faelan returned his gaze to his clasped hands, bracing his courage with a slow intake of breath.

  “The—physical discipline was much relaxed this time,” he said. “Which was almost as frightening as if they had actually done anything. The threat was always in my mind—and the memory of—last time.”

  “What did they actually do to you?” Javan repeated.

  “For the first two days, I was ordered to keep vigil in the disciplinarium,” Faelan said steadily, “made to fast on water only and to observe certain spiritual exercises. There was little opportunity for sleep. I was not permitted to attend Mass until the third day, just before the abbot called me to his solar. Father Paulin and Brother Albertus were present, as well as Father Lior and a lay scribe to take down the answers to their questions.”

  “Go on.”

  “They—only asked about you, Sire: what I had observed, what we had discussed, what I had seen and heard of other members of your immediate household. And your confessions. At least you had—given me permission to divulge their contents. Not that there was anything remarkable in them. And since I have observed nothing at all out of the ordinary, of course I could tell them nothing of that, either.”

  The statement certainly was the literal truth as Faelan remembered it, but Javan knew that the Custodes’ questioning must have gone beyond what Faelan had indicated—and that he himself had blocked certain memories surrounding events just before the coronation, including the night of Brother Serafin’s death.

  “Lean closer, Father,” he whispered, setting his hand across Faelan’s forehead as the priest obeyed. “Now tell me everything that happened at the abbey.”

  Faelan tensed at the touch, half trying to turn his face away, but Javan clasped his other hand behind the priest’s head to prevent his retreat, entering the other’s mind to find a casual inhibition set against volunteering details of what had transpired in the abbot’s study. It was easy enough to release, though; and what Faelan began to reveal startled Javan, though it hardly surprised him.

  “Tell me in your own words, Father,” he whispered, slipping his hands down to Faelan’s shoulders. “You’ll find that you can remember it all now.”

  Faelan spoke slowly and as if in a daze, dark eyes gazing through and beyond the intent Javan.

  “That ‘lay scribe’—someone referred to him as Master Dimitri,” Faelan whispered. “They asked me about the night Brother Serafin died, and Dimitri kept watching me rather than writing down my answers …”

  Down in the cathedral precincts, in the quarters Archbishop Hubert occupied when he was resident in Rhemuth, Paulin of Ramos was relating another part of the story to his superior.

  “So the circumstances surrounding Brother Serafin’s death do appear to be exactly as presented at the time,” he said. “I have little doubt that his heart did fail. Only Father Lior was anywhere near him when he was stricken, and it had been very hot that day.”

  Hubert had been listening almost indulgently, still convinced that Paulin’s efforts had been wasted—for surely Serafin’s death had been from natural causes—but he dutifully offered the next logical question.

  “Only Lior was near him,” he repeated. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance that Lior had any part in it?”

  “None whatever.”

  “Very well. Is it possible that Serafin could have been poisoned, or drugged in some way to make it look like simple heart failure?”

  Paulin shook his head. “He had eaten and drunk nothing for several hours, and he shared his meal then with several other brethren including Lior—and they shared common vessels. There’s nothing to suggest that kind of interference.”

  He drew a breath, as if considering whether to speak further, and Hubert cocked his head at him.

  “Does something suggest some other kind of interference?” he asked.

  Paulin had been toying with one of the fringed ends of his crimson sash, and brushed it idly against his other hand as he considered the question. “That’s what continues to bother me. As you might expect, Lior was questioned very thoroughly about that night, both at the time and after we returned to the abbey with Serafin’s body. It had not come out in earlier interviews, but under closer examination he—seemed to recall something about a visit to Father Faelan, earlier in the evening. I believe I told you it had been their intention to interview him in the next day or two, but nothing was said of it in Lior’s first accounts of their movements that night.”

  “Are you implying that it was a deliberate evasion?”

  Paulin shook his head. “No, just an understandable omission of what was a very minor event in the context of what else happened
that night. There was something else, though. A—” He glanced at Hubert and sighed. “Very well. To tell you about this, I also have to tell you about something else. When I spoke of closer examination, I meant precisely that. Some months ago, I took a Deryni into my employ.”

  “You did what?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve employed all the necessary safeguards. He calls himself Dimitri. A party of my knights returning from the Forcinn encountered him and his brother on a ship outbound from Fianna. The brother, Collos, was gravely ill with a fever, so one of our battle surgeons attended him.”

  “I don’t believe I am hearing this,” Hubert muttered from between clenched teeth.

  “Just listen, before you presume to judge. Once the crisis was past and it was clear that Collos would live, it emerged that the two were Deryni, and that Dimitri, the other brother, had been an undersheriff in Vezaire, allegedly deposed for malfeasance and misappropriation of funds. He, of course, maintains that he was framed—which may or may not be true. The ship’s crew seemed to think it was.”

  Hubert rolled his eyes heavenward as Paulin continued.

  “Be that as it may, the two were destitute. Collos almost certainly would have died if my battle surgeon hadn’t intervened—which he probably wouldn’t have done, had he known at the time that the two were Deryni. Nonetheless, Dimitri let it be known that while he eventually hoped to return and take revenge on those who had accused him falsely, his gratitude to those who had saved his brother’s life impelled him to offer them his service—for pay, of course, since he must eventually finance his return, but he possessed certain skills of interrogation which he had acquired while serving in Vezaire. He had heard that Gwynedd occasionally employs such skills, under certain very controlled circumstances. He readily demonstrated his skills on several crewmen, some willing and some less so.”