King Javan’s Year (36 page)

After about ten minutes, Joram went over to them, nodding amiably to the bewildered Faelan as he took control from Javan and sat down. He had not introduced himself, but he wore a plain black cassock such as any priest might wear. Let Faelan draw his own conclusions—though he hardly could have failed to surmise that most of those in the room must be Deryni.

“You're a very brave man, Father,” Joram said quietly. “If it will ease your mind a little, your fellow
Custodes
over there have no idea you're involved in any intrigue. What was done to you, they would have done to anyone his Highness asked to have in his service. You weren't singled out, and I doubt you will be—though I'm afraid Paulin's pet Deryni will continue to be a threat.”

“Did you find out who he is?” Javan asked as Faelan merely blinked.

Joram inclined his head slightly. “We now know a little about him,” he conceded. “But there's no need to expose Father Faelan to information that could put him in further danger.” His eyes caught and held Faelan's.

“Forgive me if this seems high-handed, Father, but I'm going to ask you to go over to Jesse and Oriel now. Someday I hope that we'll be able to explain to you what we're doing and why, but for now, I must ask you to trust that what we require is for the protection of the king and of Gwynedd. Go now.”

Faelan obeyed without demur, submitting first to Jesse's quick assessment and then to Oriel's more detailed ministrations, under Jesse's supervision, since the Healer would continue to have contact with him in the future. Priest and prince observed in silence for several seconds before Joram shifted his gaze back to Javan.

“You needn't worry overly about Faelan,” Joram murmured. “He
is
a brave man and he'll be fine.”

“I know that,” Javan said. “What did you find out about our
Custodes
collaborator?”

“Not as much as we hoped,” Joram said frankly, “though Niallan is still digging. It seems Paulin doesn't confide much in his minions—which is hardly surprising, I suppose, in an autocratic command structure like that of the
Custodes
. Those two only know the man as Dimitri, or Master Dimitri—no last name—which may or may not be his true identity.”

He sent a tight-focused image of the man—dark eyes above a neatly trimmed beard and moustache of a mousy brown flecked with grey, greyer hair cut just below his ears, one of which—the right—was pierced through the lobe by a slender golden hoop the diameter of a man's thumb. His high-collared tunic was black, buttoned at the shoulder like a soutane, but it was not a cleric's attire—not with all that heavy silk braid lavished across collar and cuffs and shoulders. The design was nothing Javan could precisely place, but it had a foreign feel to it—eastern, perhaps. Somehow, Javan found that disconcerting.

“He looks—self-confident,” he said to Joram, filing the image away for future reference. “How skilled do you reckon he is?”

Joram shrugged. “That's difficult to say. It's a given that he can Truth-Read, and we know he did a reasonably thorough probe on Faelan. In addition, Lior has seen him do several forced Readings and possibly rip a mind. Not that Lior really knows what that means, but that's what Niallan and I surmise, from the condition of the subject afterward.

“The resourceful Dimitri also knows a fairly wide range of drugs to make his work easier, whether it's humans or Deryni he's dealing with. It was his idea to give Faelan
merasha
—as much for the terror factor as from any real need, though most sedatives will take the edge off resistance. Secondhand, just from what Lior and Serafin know, it's hard to be certain whether he's a high-level practitioner or just a trained inquisitor, but whatever his abilities, he's working for pay. There's no coercion involved.”

“He's a hireling, then,” Javan said, contempt in his voice. “He's selling out his own kind for
money!
”

“What worries me more,” Joram replied, “is that maybe he
isn't
selling out his own kind.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just this. You noted the vaguely foreign flavor to his attire. Suppose he has other paymasters besides Paulin? Eastern ones, perhaps even Torenthi ones. Paulin's only human. It wouldn't be difficult to hide that from him.”

Javan fought down a sick, queasy churning in the pit of his stomach.

“Sweet
Jesu
,” he murmured. “You mean, Torenth could have a Deryni spy within the
Custodes Fidei?
”

“It's a possibility. And Paulin's made it clear to Lior and Serafin that Dimitri's status is to be kept secret—which could be coming from Dimitri himself. Hubert may not even know about it. You might try to find out whether he does, if you can do it unobtrusively. If he doesn't know, that's an indication that someone is playing a double game—either Paulin, perhaps preparing to make some sort of power play, or Dimitri, as part of some larger scheme.”

Feeling almost light-headed, Javan turned half away. Aside from any personal danger, which came with the crown he would shortly don, Torenthi interference in Gwynedd's affairs was the ultimate outside threat he could conceive. All his life, he had lived in the knowledge that a Festillic Pretender was sheltering at the Torenthi Court, almost exactly Javan's age, biding his time until he should attain sufficient maturity and support to make a bid for the throne his parents once had held.

“Do you think this Dimitri
has
been sent by Torenth?”

“I don't think we can exclude the possibility until we're sure,” Joram replied. “Whatever his ultimate loyalty, he certainly isn't working in your behalf—not if he sets your confessor to spy on you. And even if he
is
simply Paulin's ‘tame' Deryni, keeping the
Custodes
‘pure' and working to prevent
you
from bringing Deryni back into favor—he's still a problem that eventually will have to be dealt with.

“It's going to be tricky, though, because you can't let on how you've found out about him. Unless you mean to go after him directly, and simply have him taken out before he can give a warning, it almost has to be a setup involving Oriel—or possibly Sitric, but that's even more dangerous, because he doesn't know about any of this and might not want to take the risks associated with playing both—”

He broke off at a sudden stirring around the supine form of Serafin, as Niallan lurched abruptly to his feet and came quickly toward them, leaving Jesse and Oriel bent anxiously over the unconscious monk. Guiscard had joined them at some point and was kneeling near Serafin's feet, looking worried. Father Lior was still sitting nearby with his back against the wall, head bowed, deep asleep, as was Father Faelan on the other side of the room. Charlan had withdrawn to stand by the door.

“Joram, you'd better have another look at Brother Serafin,” Niallan said. “Apparently Dimitri's far more clever than we thought. We just found a telltale that Guiscard must have triggered when he took him out—no fault of Guiscard's, but Dimitri will know there's been tampering, the first time he Reads Serafin again. It was deep. We all almost missed it.”

Swearing softly under his breath, Joram came to his feet and pushed past Niallan to crouch by Serafin's head, Javan following anxiously, for it seemed some of their worst fears were already being realized. Guiscard would not look at either of them. Both Jesse and Oriel were engaged in deep Readings, and Joram waited until they had finished before laying hands on Serafin's forehead and conducting his own. If anything, he looked even more serious as he came out of trance and glanced around at all of them—though pointedly not at Javan.

“All right,” Joram said quietly, “what are the options?”

Niallan gave a perplexed sigh and sat back on his heels. “Thanks to Dimitri, I very much fear that Brother Serafin has run out of options. It was a subtle piece of work—which does, indeed, tend to confirm that Dimitri is more than just a trained inquisitor. Guiscard's blaming himself, but he couldn't have known. Probably none of us could have caught it in time to pull out and avoid triggering it.”

“What about Lior?” Javan asked, for he had been the one to put the priest out of commission.

“Fortunately, he appears to be clean,” Niallan said. “Now that we know what to look for, we'll check again, just to make sure. Serafin, though—we were able to blur the trace enough that Dimitri wouldn't know
what
has been done, or by whom, but there's no way he can miss the signs of tampering.

“That means tampering by another Deryni—which puts Oriel at the top of the list of suspects, as soon as Dimitri finds out,” Niallan went on. “And if he starts wondering whether other Deryni might be close to the king—”

“Say no more. It's clear what has to be done,” Joram said, turning his gaze on Oriel, who had gone absolutely white. “Oriel, relax. We'll continue to protect you and your family, but you've got to help us. Give us a Healer's assessment of Serafin's general health. Does he have any problems we can amplify?”

Oriel looked like he was going to be physically ill. “You're going to have to kill him, aren't you?” he whispered. “Please don't ask me to be a part of it. They've made me do murder for
them
. Don't ask me to do the same for you!”

“It isn't murder; it's an execution,” Joram said mildly. “And it mustn't look like either—which, unfortunately, precludes the quick dose of steel Guiscard would like to give him in a dark alley.”

Guiscard grimaced and looked away, obviously still feeling responsible, though there was no cause.

“Oriel, no one's asking
you
to kill him,” Joram went on. “If the specific offense may not seem to warrant a death sentence—falling victim to whatever scheme this Dimitri's set up—keep in mind that he has plenty else to answer for, besides what he had done to Faelan. Just answer me this one question: If his heart stopped in his sleep, would your suspicions as a Healer be aroused? More to the point, would a human physician be suspicious?”

As Oriel wrestled with the question, Javan forced himself to pull his own dismay up short, knowing Joram was right yet still feeling for Oriel—and even the luckless Serafin. The Healer was trembling as he laid hands on the unconscious man, swallowing hard before beginning his appraisal.

“S-sometimes, when he gets very angry, he has fainting spells,” he said haltingly, after a moment. “His—blood is high, and he—has himself bled regularly, to keep it down. That's where he—got the idea to use blood-letting as a threat, a control within the Order, even a torture—the—the way he had done to Father Faelan.”

Pulling away with a shudder, he glanced over at the sleeping priest—as did Javan, remembering his own ordeal. But this was not about vengeance or even retribution, but survival. And if Serafin survived to betray them to Dimitri, Javan knew that some of the men in this room were almost sure to die.

“Oriel, it doesn't really matter what he's done or why,” he heard himself saying. “You don't kill a mad dog because it's bitten someone; you kill it to prevent it biting again. It's clear what has to happen. And if it has to be done, best make it as clean and quick as possible, and with minimal danger to any of us. I don't like it any more than any of the rest of you, but I accept its necessity—just as I accept ultimate responsibility for it, because that's a part of being king. So I'll repeat Joram's question. Would it be out of character for Serafin's heart to fail?”

He had taken them by surprise, he knew. Joram, at least, probably had expected him to be squeamish and had thought to spare him the necessity to take an active part in what was being decided. As he waited for Oriel's answer, he could feel their eyes upon him, weighing, calculating, but he knew in his heart that what he had said, he honestly believed; and for the first time since returning to Rhemuth, he found that he actually
felt
like a king, and that he had some control over what was unfolding.

The moment persisted for only a few heartbeats; then everything was racing along again as Oriel said, “No, no one would suspect.”

“All right, then,” Jesse said, picking up as if nothing unusual had just happened. “He's staying down at the archbishop's palace with the other
Custodes
dignitaries. I'm already dressed to go calling, so I'll follow him down and take him while he sleeps.” He made a fist and shook it once. “Quick, clean, and untraceable. He simply doesn't wake up. And no one is going to notice another
Custodes
monk coming and going, two nights before the coronation.”

“But if they do, and you're caught, you're dead,” Joram pointed out. “We can't take that risk. No, the method's right, but I think it happens en route. I think you accompany our two
Custodes
brethren about as far as the gatehouse—where the unfortunate Brother Serafin collapses from the heat and overexertion and simply doesn't get up again.”

“Except that
I'm
the one who does it,” Guiscard said, finally speaking. “Jesse's already had a full night. He can't guarantee he's at peak efficiency. It's my call, Joram. I got us into this mess.”

Niallan laid a hand on his and shook his head. “Guiscard, you're not to blame and you don't need to expiate any guilt by doing this—but I do agree that Jesse's done enough. Furthermore, Jesse would still have to make his escape from a largely unfamiliar area, whereas you're free to go where you wish in the castle precincts without arousing suspicion. Joram?”

Javan could almost hear Joram's thought process, looking for flaws in the scenario, but he knew, as did Guiscard and Niallan, that it was a good plan. He even knew the spell to which they'd been alluding, against which the human Serafin would have no defense. Almost, he felt sorry for the monk—until he made himself recall the deeds for which Serafin must answer, of which Father Faelan's torture was one of the less odious.