King Javan’s Year (33 page)

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 distance 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.

“Is that all? Because if it is, his Highness really should get some sleep.
All
of us should get some sleep. It sounds as if we're going to be very busy about this time tomorrow night.”

In fact, they were busy all the next day, the last but one before the coronation. The morning began with Mass in the Chapel Royal, celebrated by a Father Faelan who seemed much recovered from his condition of the day before. In sheerly physical terms, the improvement would have been marked; but he seemed also to have put aside the concerns that had him quaking and cowed the day before. The homily he preached was short but fitting for a king soon to be crowned, speaking of rendering unto God and Caesar. The two pages serving at the altar were a little stiff, as was normal when adjusting to the preferences of a new priest, but the Mass proceeded with acceptable decorum and only one minor fumble when the younger page nearly dropped the great silver lavabo bowl. For the first time in weeks, Javan was able to receive Communion from a priest whom he respected as a man as well as for his office, and he prayed that ways would continue to be found so that Faelan could exercise his office in good conscience. Paulin slipped into the back of the chapel just as Mass was beginning and grilled Faelan in the sacristy after, but he and Faelan both looked satisfied with the interview when Paulin left a few minutes later.

“Was there any problem with Father Paulin?” Javan asked the priest as Faelan joined him and Guiscard and Charlan to go down to the great hall for a light breakfast before exercise.

“Not at all, Sire,” Faelan replied. “He merely inquired after my health and asked if I was recovered from the fatigue of my journey. I assured him that a good night's sleep had much restored me and that I looked forward to taking up the full range of my spiritual duties in the royal household. He gave me his blessing and left.”

And that was precisely all that had passed between them, as both Javan and Guiscard could attest. And since Paulin most assuredly was not Deryni, there was no chance that anything else had transpired of which neither they nor Faelan were aware. As the day went on, with morning exercise extended in favor of extra time in the tilting yard, as preparation for the tourney that would take place the day after the coronation, Javan was able to put most of his worries out of mind, at least for a few hours.

After a bath and light repast at midday and final fittings for his coronation robes, the afternoon was occupied with archery practice, which enabled him to focus much of his concern about his great lords at the center of the straw butt that was his target. When Sir Radan commented on his particular accuracy as the afternoon wore on, Javan did not tell him it came of envisioning the faces of Murdoch and Rhun in the center of the target. Late afternoon saw the arrival of the expected entourage from Cassan—Fane Fitz-Arthur with his wife and their three-year-old son, who now was Cassan's duke—and arrangements were made to receive them at a special court the following day at noon.

Supper was early and simple, in his apartments, with Rhys Michael, his aides, Robear and Jason, Etienne de Courcy, and a handful of the other young knights not occupied elsewhere. It was a congenial gathering, but Javan did not let it last much past dark, pleading fatigue and the need for a clear head on the morrow, the last day before his coronation.

Gradually the supper guests filtered out, some of the men to take up nighttime duties, others to return to their families. Etienne was among the first to leave—he would join them in the Portal room later. But though the others soon followed, Rhys Michael lingered until only he and Charlan and Guiscard remained, the latter two supervising the squires who were clearing away the last of the debris from their meal.

The prince had put away copious amounts of wine with dinner, and Javan had hoped that gentle inebriation would encourage his brother's early departure with the rest. Instead, as the last of the squires took their leave, Rhys Michael moved into the window embrasure, pushing one of the glazed lower panels wider to admit more air. The evening was still and balmy, just on the edge of being too hot, and both brothers were in their shirt sleeves.

“Are you scared about the day after tomorrow?” Rhys Michael asked, turning back to him, his face barely discernible in the light of a candle by Javan on the table.

Javan brought the candle nearer and set it just inside the embrasure, stepping up to stand beside his brother.

“Not scared, exactly,” Javan said. “A little apprehensive, maybe. It's a complicated ceremony.”

“That isn't what I meant,” Rhys Michael said. “You'll be an anointed king. That's—almost magical. You'll be set apart. You'll never be the same again.”

Javan sank down on one of the cushions to consider. Father Faelan had mentioned something of the sort in his homily this morning. Javan supposed the sacring of a king
was
magical, in the same sense that a priest's anointing set him apart for a special kind of service. Most assuredly, he would not be the same when it was over; but he already would never be the same as he was before Joram and the others had unleashed the Haldane powers in him.

“I'll still be your brother,” he said, suspecting that this was what was really troubling Rhys Michael. “Nothing can ever change that. Did you think it would?”

Rhys Michael looked away, swaying a little on his feet. “I dunno. It changed something in Alroy once he became king. I hardly ever got to see him. He was always busy doing king things.”

“Well, it wasn't exactly by choice,” Javan replied. “And with none of us being of legal age when it all started, the situation was hardly typical. Things are going to be different now, though. I hope you'll be able to help me with a lot of the ‘king things,' as you put it. After all, until I marry and start producing heirs, you're the heir presumptive. You need the training, just in case.”

Rhys Michael wobbled down onto the seat opposite Javan. “That's something I've been wanting to talk to you about—marrying, not the training. I'm not too keen on books, y'know. Maybe this isn't the best time, though. I think maybe I've had too much to drink …”

It was
not
the best time. The subject certainly needed airing, but not with Rhys Michael in his cups and looking to go maudlin any minute, and not tonight. The work ahead brooked no prolonged discussion on any topic. Sending a quick command to Guiscard, Javan leaned back in his seat and made himself chuckle.

“I hope this is theoretical rather than practical,” he said lightly, to the sound of liquid being poured elsewhere in the room. “Princes obviously are expected to marry eventually, but you aren't even fifteen yet.”

“I
will
be, in another couple of months,” Rhys Michael said indignantly.

“Oh, I'm well aware of that. I'm also aware of the almost irresistible urges that probably are starting to stir by now. You've plenty of time, though.” He cocked his head, choosing his next words for their shock value. “Or is there some urgency I don't know about? Rhysem, you haven't gone and gotten some poor serving wench pregnant, have you?”

“Me? Oh, no! I never—I mean, I—”

As Rhys Michael stammered and stumbled over his own tongue, spared the open blaze of his blushes by the dim light in the embrasure, an impassive Guiscard approached with a pair of small silver goblets, bowing blandly and withdrawing as Javan took them with a nod of thanks.

“Well, that's a relief. Here, try some of this Rhennish brandywine and tell me what you think of it.”

As he handed one of the goblets across to Rhys Michael and their hands touched, he tried to reach across the bond of their flesh to trigger sleep—and was brought up short by shields!

The rebound did not hurt, but it made Javan gasp. To cover his astonishment, he managed to fumble the goblet in his other hand and drop it. It struck the stone flags in a silvery clangor, splashing his boot with brandywine, and he leaped to his feet with a yelp.

“Yipe, that was clumsy of me! Guiscard, get a cloth to wipe this up, will you?”

“Coming, Sire.”

As Javan pretended to root at his feet for the errant goblet, his mind was reeling. How could Rhys Michael have shields? When could it have happened, and how? His immediate suspicion was that the shields dated from the moment of Alroy's death, when Rhys Michael had moved that much closer in the succession. Maybe exposure to the energies surrounding Alroy's passing had stirred up part of the Haldane potential set in him the night their father died. Javan didn't think it was meant to work that way, but who knew? No one had expected
his
powers to start developing spontaneously while Alroy was still alive—but they had.

Not knowing the extent of his brother's awakening, Javan decided not to risk sending directly to Guiscard again, lest Rhys Michael detect it. But when the young knight came near, taking the goblet from Javan and crouching to look for the spill, Javan decided he had to risk a contact rapport.

“Better get it off the boot first, before it stains,” he said, grabbing Guiscard's hand to guide it to the boot—and to establish the necessary physical contact.

Guiscard, he has shields. I don't know how or when he got them. I couldn't put him out
.

Did he feel the attempt?

I don't think so. What now, though! We've got people waiting
.

Leave it to me
, Guiscard returned. “That's got it, I think,” he went on verbally, shifting his attention to mopping up the floor. “Can I get you something else, Sire? I'm afraid that was the last of the brandywine.”

“A pity,” Javan murmured, glancing at Rhys Michael, who was downing his with obvious relish. “At least Rhysem got to taste it.”

“Mmmmm, it really is good, Javan!” his brother said archly, lifting his goblet in jaunty salute. “It's a sin to waste it. You'd better mention that, the next time you go to confession!”

“I guess I'm more nervous than I thought,” Javan allowed with a sheepish grin. “Guiscard, how about one of those sweet Fianna varietals? Rhysem would probably like the one we were drinking last night, if you and Charlan didn't finish it off.”