King Javan’s Year (64 page)

“Yes, but will bravery be enough?” Javan quipped. Smiling wearily, he drank deeply from his cup, then leaned back in his chair, resting his head against its back. “It might be different if I dared to unleash the powers I think I have at my disposal. It certainly might be different if I dared to call old allies back to Court. I know now that most of the Deryni who served my father were honest, upright men and women—though you'll never convince our enemies of that. But sometimes I do wish …”

As he closed his eyes and his voice trailed off, his two aides exchanged troubled looks, one a Deryni and one human, drawn together by their common love and loyalty for the third man in the room, who embodied perhaps the best of both races. Whether the enemies of such a man could allow him to retain his crown remained to be seen.

The man conversing earnestly with the Archbishop-Primate of All Gwynedd had determined that it should not be allowed. Paulin of Ramos had taken many gambles to bring him where he was tonight, and now prepared to take yet another, if his companion proved at all cooperative.

“There's someone you should meet,” he told the archbishop. “He arrived last night, but I wanted to wait until today's news arrived.”

Hubert was sipping a cup of mulled cider in the rather spartan dayroom that connected his parlor with Paulin's quarters, here at Paulin's invitation after leaving the aborted supper party up at the castle. The
Custodes
Vicar General had been nursing some secret satisfaction all the way back. His eyes were almost feverishly bright as he searched his superior's face for any warning to back off.

“Why are you acting so strangely?” Hubert muttered, taking another swallow of cider. “Who is this you want me to meet?”

For answer, Paulin went to the door that led into his sleeping chamber and threw it open. Father Lior was waiting behind it, standing beside a middle-aged man with greying, mousy-brown hair cut just below his ears, one of which was pierced by a gold ring. The eyes were averted, but a neatly trimmed beard and moustache framed a sensuous mouth. Under a hooded black mantle, completely unadorned, he was wearing an ankle-length robe that gave the vague impression of religious attire, but without the hooded scapular or braided cincture that would have made of it a
Custodes
habit.

“You know Father Lior,” Paulin said as the two moved into the room and Lior came to kiss Hubert's ring, “but you've not yet met Master Dimitri.”

The man looked up as his name was spoken, piercing black eyes catching and holding Hubert's as he continued forward. Hubert gasped, drawing back his hand from Lior, staring as Dimitri sank gracefully to his knees at Hubert's feet and bent forward to touch his forehead to the floor. As he straightened to sit back onto his haunches, small hands resting easily on his thighs, the black eyes reengaged Hubert's.

“My suspicions were aroused when I came in last week and found the king at your feet, your hands in his,” Paulin said, sitting easily in the chair beside Hubert's. “Something bothered me about it. I know you were just giving him absolution after confession,” he said, raising a hand as Hubert started to protest. “But after he'd gone, and you told me what he'd confessed, that didn't ring true, either.”

“What are you suggesting?” Hubert said, unable to take his eyes from Dimitri's.

“I'm getting to that. Javan has been very careful to avoid romantic entanglements with any of the eligible young ladies of court. It may well be that occasionally he has found himself entertaining lewd fantasies regarding any or all of these ladies. He's a red-blooded young man like any other of his age.

“But given the less than cordial relationship you and he have enjoyed since his return to Court, do you really think it likely that he would have confessed such intimate failings to you? And certainly not about Juliana of Horthness, whose father he despises. Even if the young lady in question
had
aroused such passions, and he felt the overwhelming urge to confess it, there are many other priests to whom he could have made confession anonymously, and without mentioning the lady's name. Names are not necessary, as you know, and are usually discouraged.”

“He did tell me, though.”

“Yes, I'm certain you believe that he did,” Paulin said lightly, keeping a casual eye on Dimitri, who had not moved. “I can't begin to guess
how
he might have persuaded you of that,” he went on, “but I begin to suspect that it may not have been any ordinary persuasion.

“Now, who would be capable of that? A Deryni, of course. Master Oriel comes to mind immediately, but I should think his involvement rather unlikely, if only because he's so obvious. Besides that, his movements have been severely restricted since becoming part of the king's household.

“That leaves several distressing possibilities. Some other Deryni working secretly for the king, perhaps? Or is it possible that the king himself has somehow acquired the power to alter your memory?”

“That isn't possible!” Hubert whispered, at last dragging his eyes from Dimitri's to stare aghast at Paulin. “He's human! I know he is!”

“Is he?” Paulin said softly. “His father is said to have withstood every magic that King Imre could raise against him. That doesn't even begin to explain how he blasted a Deryni Michaeline named Father Humphrey, who had poisoned the salt used at the baptism of Cinhil's firstborn son. Were you even aware that there was an infant prince before Alroy and Javan?”

Hubert shook his head.

“I thought not.” Paulin went on. “I can't verify the story about standing up to Imre, but I did manage to gain access to Archbishop Anscom's official register of baptisms and deaths. It was Anscom who presided over the little prince's baptism and then administered the Last Rites. Interestingly enough, the very next entry refers to one Humphrey of Gallareaux, priest of the Order of Saint Michael, who also received the final Rites of the Church on that date. I'd say that tends to confirm the other story I'd heard that Cinhil somehow called upon incredible powers to kill the man who had murdered his son.”

“Dear
Jesu
,” Hubert said after a few seconds. “But even if it were true, that doesn't mean his other sons inherited such powers. Alroy certainly didn't have any magic, and you'd think Javan would have used his by now, if he had any.”

“I think perhaps he has,” Paulin said quietly. “That's why I asked Master Dimitri to join us this evening. This doesn't mean I think Javan has the high magic his father occasionally tapped,” he added, at Hubert's look of horror, “but I think, perhaps, he wields the subtler magics. Of all the princes, Hubert, he would have been the one most likely to be corrupted by Deryni influence. The Healer Tavis O'Neill was his constant companion for several years before being driven from Court.”

“This is preposterous,” Hubert began. “He can't possibly—”

“What if he Truth-Reads?” Paulin insisted. “What if he can compel people to tell the truth? Tavis might have taught him how. Maybe he even learned how to make people forget, after he'd plied his wicked work. What do you suppose you and Javan might have talked about
before
he confessed stirrings of lust for a girl he's always studiously avoided? Can you remember? What kinds of questions do you think he might have asked regarding what you
really
know about Rhys Michael's abduction?”

Hubert's eyes had been getting wider and wider as Paulin piled suggestion upon suggestion, and he was pressing tightly clenched hands to his rosebud lips as Paulin finished, the baby-blue eyes wide and frightened.

“Dear God, how can we know?” He breathed. “How can any—”

He broke off as his darting eyes met Dimitri's again and could not move on, his body going rigid as he realized what Paulin had been leading up to. Faintly smiling, Dimitri raised up onto his knees and laid his hands palm-up on Hubert's knees, his eyes inviting Hubert's touch but no longer compelling.

“Is this familiar, Hubert?” Paulin's voice whispered, close by Hubert's side. “What was Javan really doing when I came in that other night? How many times has he done this before? Is this, perhaps, why you believed him, years ago, when he told you he had a vocation and asked to go into the abbey? I've always wondered how he managed to beguile you so easily; you're usually far less gullible than that.”

“It wasn't like that,” Hubert found himself saying. “It can't have been. I surely would have known.”

“I believe Master Dimitri can show you how surely you would have known,” Paulin purred. “There's only one way to find out. All you have to do is lay your hands on his.”

Hubert's heart was pounding in his chest, apprehension immobilizing him, but gradually anger began to supplant the fear—anger that perhaps he had indeed been used. He remembered Javan's confession clearly, but if it had never really happened—

Trembling, he forced himself to lower his clenched fists to his lap, staring at Dimitri's upturned hands. Then, timidly drawing a breath, he made himself unclench his fists and set his hands on the Deryni's, every muscle tensed.

Nothing happened. In the first shocked seconds of contact, Hubert could not believe it. After half a dozen heartbeats, he let himself exhale. As he slowly drew another breath, Dimitri glanced casually at their joined hands, then slowly closed his thumbs inward, not to catch Hubert's hands but to stroke gently along their backs.

“I shan't hurt you,” he said softly, speaking for the first time. His voice had a melody to it, the accent recalling eastern climes. The eyes seemed to have depths to them that called to Hubert, inviting him to drown in blissful nothingness.

“Rest easy, my lord,” the voice urged, as waves of relaxation now began to wash into Hubert's mind. “This need not be difficult for either of us. Just relax …”

The next thing Hubert knew, he was jerking back awake in his chair, surprised to see a bearded stranger kneeling at his feet, hands folded piously at his waist. Paulin was sitting in the chair beside him. For some reason, Father Lior was perched on the granite curbing that edged the hearth behind the stranger, his arms wrapped around his knees. And all of them were looking at him expectantly.

“Do you remember anything of the past half hour?” Paulin said quietly from beside him.

Hubert whipped his head around to stare at the
Custodes
Vicar General. “What are you talking about?” he said. “Who is this man?”

For answer, Paulin nodded to the bearded man, who calmly reached out to brush his fingertips across the back of one of Hubert's hands. Memory came flooding back so abruptly that Hubert gasped. He could feel himself blanching with shock as he looked first to Master Dimitri, who had done it, then over at Paulin, who had ordered it.

“Javan
did
tamper with my mind,” he whispered. “How could I not have known?”

“Your Grace is fortunate that the Haldane had not time to finish well what he started last week,” Dimitri said, rocking back to sit on the hearth curbing beside Lior. “I cannot say for certain what was the subject of his inquiry, for he left no trace of that, but I think he never made you confession.”

“But I remember it—”

“Because you were instructed to remember it,” Dimitri replied. “I cannot say exactly how he was able to accomplish this, but I believe your Grace must assume that he knows, at very least, that the abduction of his brother was a sham—and why. Most likely, he is also aware that both you and my Lord Paulin were party to the deception—though he dare not confront you lest he betray how he learned it. Had my Lord Paulin not interrupted, he might have succeeded in hiding all trace of his night's work.”

“Did he—tamper before?” Hubert dared to ask. “Is that how he made me believe he had a genuine vocation?”

Dimitri shrugged, an eloquent gesture of graceful shoulders moving beneath his black robe. “I cannot say. He is young to have such skill, even if he were Deryni, and was younger still at that time. Any ‘tampering,' as you put it, would have been relatively simple and very cautious. Nothing so blatant as what he did last week—though that was well enough done. Had he been given another moment or two, I might not have been able to detect the seams in his work.”

“This is incredible,” Hubert breathed. “I can't believe this of Javan. Are you certain that Master Oriel had no part in it? I've used his services on occasion. Maybe
he
did it.”

“Master Oriel—the Healer, yes? I think not. You would have taken care not to let him touch you without witnesses present. Under such circumstances, it would have been very difficult. No, it was the king who touched your mind last week, have no doubt.”

“Is he Deryni, then?”

“No, but something similar and just as dangerous, if you do not stop him.”

The words hung on the air, neither Hubert nor Lior daring to breathe, until Paulin calmly stood and gestured for the two crouching men to rise. “Father Lior, you and Master Dimitri may retire now. Please remain in your quarters. For now, I would prefer that your presence in Rhemuth not become known.”

When the two had gone, Paulin turned to lay one arm along the edge of the mantel, glancing back over his shoulder at Hubert.

“What now?” he said softly. “Or would you prefer to sleep on it? We've not increased our danger by what happened here tonight. We simply know now far more than we did before. The king doesn't know that we know—and even if he did, there's nothing he dares do without betraying himself. I'd like to see just how far he thinks he can take this, now that he's failed to prevent his brother's marriage.”

“Aye, but we don't dare take any really serious action until there's another heir,” Hubert muttered. “I shudder to think what might have happened if one of your men had thumped the prince just a little too hard, or an archer had been just a little off target.”