King Javan’s Year (18 page)

“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, Jesse. 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.

“Jesse MacGregor,” he said steadily, nodding slightly in acknowledgment of the other. “I'm not very good at this yet—which no doubt is part of the reason Joram wants me to do it—but I fancy I'm improving. If Joram thinks we should do this, here and now, I'm willing to give it my best effort.”

As he wound down, hardly able to believe he had said it and to someone he knew not at all, Jesse smiled.

“You honor me with your trust, my prince,” he said quietly. “This needn't be the trial you're obviously expecting, though. Will you allow me to guide you?”

As Javan nodded, for he could not quite bring himself to speak his assent, Jesse added his left hand to the three already clasped between them, setting it firmly atop, encompassing all three. The grasp was strong and sure, the grasp of a seasoned fighting man, but the shields Jesse presented, just at the edge of Javan's awareness, were not at all intimidating.

“Close your eyes and relax, my prince,” Jesse said. “We needn't go deep, this first time. Just a gentle, easy rapport. I'll guide, but you control the depth. There's no urgency. I'm here to serve. Relax …”

Javan obeyed, letting himself sink in response to Jesse's words, sighing softly as he felt himself slip back to the centered serenity he had experienced with Joram. Jesse's touch was silken smooth, enfolding but not restraining, soothing but also inviting, so that Javan felt his shields roll back in perfect unison with the other's.

The rapport was utterly undemanding, offering an easy glimpse of the mind and soul that were Jesse MacGregor and taking up what Javan offered in return. Without being aware how it happened, Javan found himself possessed of a fairly detailed impression of a young Deryni who had accomplished much in the few years of his young manhood, and much of it in the service of the Haldanes. Jesse asked nothing in return, but Javan found himself sharing some of the highlights—and low points—of
his
last three years, sensing instinctively that the other needed to know these things.

When, by unspoken but mutual consent, both withdrew once again behind their shields, Javan slowly opened his eyes and heaved a contented sigh. Jesse was watching him, smiling faintly, and somehow it came as no surprise when Jesse bent slowly and gravely to kiss the royal hand. The fealty it betokened, however, had already been cemented in far more personal and binding form.

“You underestimate your own skill, my prince,” Jesse said, straightening and dismantling hands. “But I think you have other duties calling you just now.” He glanced beyond Javan at Joram and Niallan. “Shall I take him back, or would one of you rather?”