Katherine Kurtz - Heirs 02 - King Javan's Year

RNRQCWFJHE Kurtz, Katherine - Heirs of Saint Camber 2 - King Javan's Year 1-2-2004

THE MAGIC OF THE KING

“Excellency, may I speak with you?’ Javan said. “I-have need of a priest.’

Archbishop Huber lowered his bulk into the largest of the three chairs set before the fire. He gestured for

Javan to take the chair beside him. “Is it a confession, my son?’ Hubert asked quietly.

In that instant, as Hubert´s hand reached across to pat Javan´s shoulder, Javan shifted to cover Hubert´s

hand with his own, surging his own controls across the bond of flesh. He sent his mind into Hubert´s. His

only intent was to query regarding his brother Rhys Michael; but he gasped in horror as he took in the

scope of the Regents´ plot, endorsed by Hubert.

It was treachery of the most insidious sort, and it was already too late for Javan to prevent it...

By Katherine Kurtz

Published by Ballantine Books:

THE LEGENDS OF CAMBER OF CULDI

CAMBER OF CULDI

SAINT CAMBER

CAMBER THE HERETIC

THE CHRONICLES OF THE DERYNI

DERYNI RISING

DERYNI CHECKMATE

HIGH DERYNI

THE HISTORIES OF KING KELSON

THE BISHOP´S HEIR

THE KING´S JUSTICE

THE QUEST FOR SAINT CAMBER

THE HEIRS OF SAINT CAMBER

THE HARROWING OF GWYNEDD

KING JAVAN´S YEAR

THE BASTARD PRINCE*

THE DERYNI ARCHIVES

DERYNI MAGIC

LAMMAS NIGHT

*Forthcoming

King Javan´s Year

Volume II of The Heirs of Saint Camber

Katherine Kurtz

DEL REY

A Del Rey Book

BALLANTINE BOOKS • NEW YORK

Sale of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been

reported to the publisher as “unsold or destroyed’ and neither the author nor the publisher may have

received payment for it.

A Del Rey Book

Published by Ballantine Books

Copyright ® 1992 by Katherine Kurtz

States of America by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and

simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 92-53218

ISBN-0-345-38478-4

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Hardcover Edition: December 1992

First Mass Market Edition: December 1993

[Javan Map.jpg]

Map by Shelly Shapiro

For

Lester del Rey

with affection and gratitude

contents

PROLOGUE FOR HE MUST REIGN, TILL HE HATH PUT ALL ENEMIES UNDER HIS FEET. -/

CORINTHIANS 15:25

I And I will give children to be their princes, and babes shall rule over them. -Isaiah 3:4

II Behold, I come quickly: hold that fast which thou hast, that no man take thy crown. -Revelations 3:11

III These things hast thou done, and I kept silence; thou thoughtest that I was altogether such a one as

thyself. -Psalms 50:21

IV Behold, I have set before thee an open door -Revelations 3:8

V For thou hast maintained my right and cause. -Psalms 9:4

VI Separate thyself from thine enemies, and take heed of thy friends. -Ecclesiasticus 6:13

VII They compassed me about also with words of hatred; and fought against me without a cause.

-Psalms 109:3

VIII Righteous lips are the delight of kings; and they love him that speaketh right. -Proverbs 16:13

IX A prudent man concealeth knowledge. -Proverbs 12:23

X I will teach you by the hand of God: that which is with the Almighty will I not conceal. -Job 27:11

XI Who coverest thyself with light as with a garment. -Psalms 104:2

XII In a trance I saw a vision. -Acts 11:5

XIII Surely thou hast spoken in mine hearing, and I have heard the voice of thy words. -Job 33:8

XIV And why stand we in jeopardy every hour? -/ Corinthians 15:30

XV Surely I will keep close nothing from you. -Tobit 12:11

XVI Let us examine him with despitefulness and torture, that we may know his meekness . . . -Wisdom

of Solomon 2:19

XVII For the hand of the artificer the work shall be commended. -Ecclesiasticus 9:17

XVIII Forget not thy friend in thy mind ... -Ecclesiasticus 37:6

XIX Observe, and take good heed, for thou walkest in peril of thy overthrowing. -Ecclesiasticus 13:13

XX For there are certain men crept in unawares. . . .--Jude 1:4

XXI He that delicately bringeth up his servant from a child shall have him become his son at the length.

-Proverbs 29:21

XXII For thou, O God, hast heard my vows; thou hast given me the heritage of those that fear thy name.

-Psalms 61:5

XXIII Deliver him that suffereth wrong from the hand of the oppressor; and be not faint-hearted when

thou sittest in judgment. -Ecclesiasticus 4:9

XXIV I said in mine heart, God shall judge the righteous and the wicked. -Ecclesiasticus 3:17

XXV And another dieth in the bitterness of his soul. . . -Job 21:25

XXVI Go not after thy lusts, but refrain thyself from thine appetites. -Ecclesiasticus 18:30

XXVII A brother offended is harder to be won than a strong city. -Proverbs 18:19

XXVIII Mine enemies reproach me all the day; and they that are mad against me are sworn against me.

-Psalms 102:8

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

-Psalms 94:4

XXX But a sore trial shall come upon the mighty. -Wisdom of Solomon 6:8

XXXI For their heart studieth destruction, and their lips talk of mischief. -Proverbs 24:2

XXXII Let us condemn him with a shameful death. -Wisdom of Solomon 2:20

XXXIII Thou hast put away mine acquaintance far from me. -Psalms 88:8

XXXIV He shall direct his counsel and knowledge, and in his secrets shall he meditate. -Ecclesiasticus

39:7

XXXV He shall serve among great men, and appear before princes; he will travel through strange

countries. -Ecclesiasticus 39:4

XXXVI Marriage is honourable in all, and the bed undefiled. -Hebrews 13:4

XXXVII Live joyfully with thy wife whom thou lovest all the days of the life of thy vanity ... for that is thy

portion in this life, and in thy labour which thou takest under the sun. -Ecclesiastes 9:9

XXXVIII Now therefore perform the doing of it. -// Corinthians 8:11

XXXIX Therefore let us lie in wait for the righteous, because he is not for our turn, and he is clean

contrary to our doings. -Wisdom of Solomon 2:12

XL A proud look, a lying tongue, and hands that shed innocent blood. -Proverbs 6:17

XLI And their king shall go into captivity, he and his princes together, saith the Lord. -Amos 1:15

XLII And the revolters are profound to make slaughter, though I have been a rebuker of them all.

-Hosea 5:2

EPILOGUE OUR INHERITANCE IS TURNED UNTO STRANGERS, OUR HOUSES UNTO

ALIENS. -LAMENTATIONS 5:2

APPENDIX I: INDEX OF CHARACTERS

APPENDIX II: INDEX OF PLACES

APPENDIX III: PARTIAL LINEAGE OF THE HALDANE KINGS

APPENDIX IV: The Festillic Kings of Gwynedd and Their Descendants

APPENDIX V: Partial Lineage of the MacRories

Prologue

For he must reign, till he hath put all enemies under his feet.

-I Corinthians 15:25

A little past dawn of a June morning already promising uncompromising heat, the dark-haired child

whose job it was to check the pigeon roost clambered up the last few rungs of the ladder leading up from

the room below and cautiously emerged on the tower´s flat roof, keeping low.

The old square stone tower set on this barren hillside was assumed by local folk to be derelict. Twisted

shrubs the size of small trees grew from a gap partway up one side, and what remained of the crenellated

battlements looked ready to tumble down at the first good storm. In fact, the tower provided cover for a

variety of clandestine activities whose scope would have surprised and shocked most of the human folk

who lived in this remote area.

Young Seanna MacGregor and the pigeons were a small part of one of those activities. Several dozen of

the dark-striped grey birds ruffled and chuckled to themselves behind the roost´s restraining mesh of

knotted cord as the sun´s white disk cleared the eastern horizon. Seanna squinted against its brightness

and scooped back sweaty wisps of hair that had escaped from her dark braid. Not a breath of air was

moving. Usually no birds came in during the night, but this morning two were sauntering along the edge of

the tower´s parapet, striped necks bobbing back and forth as they pecked for grain and twittered and

cooed to the other birds.

Trying to avoid any too-quick motion that might frighten them, the ten-year-old began creeping quietly

toward the nearer of the two pigeons. Practiced little hands soon had the first bird captive against her

chest, so that she could pull the curl of vellum out of the little wooden cylinder tied around the bird´s leg.

Her dark eyes widened as she read the brief message, and after stuffing it in a pocket, she slipped the

first bird into the cage with the others and went after the second.

The second message proved to be the same as the first-insurance, no doubt, to make certain that at least

one of them reached its destination. Glancing over the tower´s parapet to the yard below, Seanna looked

for and spotted her favorite brother over by the tumbledown stables, watching a groom lead out a big,

rangy bay that looked out of place in such mean surroundings. Not bothering to put the second bird into

the cage, she released it onto the parapet again and started back down the ladder, sniffling back tears.

Below in the yard, standing next to a bearded man in a farrier´s leather apron, the outlawed son of the

outlawed Earl of Ebor turned a critical eye on the mare being trotted back and forth outside the stable.

Jesse MacGregor was not a tall man, but his compact frame was muscled and hard. At twenty, he had

been a warrior for almost half his life. Flecks of gold stirred in the depths of brown eyes that missed very

little. The sun had bronzed his olive skin and put brassy lights in the brown hair tied back in a queue.

Over a full-sleeved white shirt of gauzy linen, open at the collar, he wore riding leathers of a dusty

cinnamon color, almost the same shade as the callused hand he raised to point at the mare´s front feet.

“Look there. Do you see it? She´s still favoring the near front.’

“Aye, she is,’ the farrier agreed. “I´ll try weighting the shoe one more time, but we won´t have any hoof

left to nail it to if we don´t get it right this time.’

“Well, do what you can,’ Jesse replied. “Thanks, Ned.’

As the farrier took the mare from the groom and led her back into the barn, Jesse turned at movement

from the direction of the tower and opened his arms to the slight, anxious form in boy´s attire who came

hurtling across the yard to tackle him around the waist, dark braid flying.

“Hey, Seanna Madonna, light of my life, what´s wrong?’ he asked as he realized she had been crying.

“Two birds this morning,’ she said, raking a slightly grubby sleeve across her eyes. “They both had the

same message. He´s dying, Jesse.’

Stiffening slightly, Jesse hugged her closer for a moment, stroking a comforting hand down the dark hair,

then took the two slips of parchment and headed back across the yard to the tower and a succession of

hidden passages leading downward.

The tower was a gateway to the last bastion of the outlawed Order of Saint Michael, though the

Michaelines themselves were long gone as an order. Nearly two decades before, the underground

sanctuary had served as headquarters for the Deryni Camber MacRorie and his associates, many of them

human, who had ousted the Deryni King Imre of Festil and restored the human line of Prince Cinhil

Haldane to the throne of Gwynedd. Since Cinhil´s death four years before, it again had become the hub

for a combined human and Deryni resistance, this time led by Camber´s son Joram.

For King Cinhil´s eldest son and heir, not yet twelve when he came to his father´s throne, had never

managed to shake off the influence of the powerful human lords who had been his regents during his

minority. Legislation pushed forward in the very first year of young Alroy´s reign had revived old

resentments of Deryni privilege and excesses by focusing them through the lens of religious conviction that

Deryni and their magical powers were evil. It was that legacy which had forced Joram and Jesse and

their colleagues underground and which drove them in their ongoing efforts to see the balance set straight.

“Two birds this morning,’ Jesse said without preamble as he entered the underground library where

Joram was working. The messages are identical-and not what we wanted to hear.’

Joram was already scanning the curl of parchment Jesse had handed him, and allowed himself a heavy

sigh as he sat back and looked up at the newcomer.

“I can´t say I haven´t been expecting this,’ he said. “Sit down, sit down. I´d hoped we might make it

through the summer, but-’ He shrugged and shook his head. “Well, we´ll just have to move our plans

ahead. Will you send the other copy on to Ansel?’

Jesse nodded, wiping a sheen of perspiration off his brow with the back of a sunburned hand. Even in the

relative cool of the underground Michaeline sanctuary, clad as he was for the summer heat, the air

seemed close and still. He found it mildly comforting to note that even the usually fastidious Joram had

loosened the collar of his black cassock.

It still jarred Jesse not to see Michaeline blue when he looked at Joram. Since the suppression of the

Order, Joram increasingly had taken to wearing the plain black working cassock of an ordinary

priest-not that much was ordinary about Joram MacRorie. Though Joram now was into his forties, with

most of his waking hours taken up in the coordination of their various efforts, he still managed to convey

the keen, battle-ready image of the Michaeline knight he once had been.

Like the old Michaeline blue, clerical black set off Joram´s lean form to perfection, a dramatic contrast to

the famous silver-gilt hair. It had gone more silvery than gold, perhaps, in the last few years, but he still

wore it short-cropped for battle ease, with the small, coin-sized Michaeline tonsure shaven at the crown-

a reminder, if primarily to himself, that he remained a Michaeline in spirit. The blue eyes still missed

nothing, but a fine network of tiny lines around them told of new stresses that had not been his in the old

days, when he had served his famous father as secretary and aide.

Joram heaved a heavy sigh and ran both hands through the silver-gilt hair, then sat back wearily in his

chair.

“The timing on this is rotten,’ he said, “but then, I suppose so is dying.’

“Do you think it´s time to call in Queron and Tavis?’ Jesse asked.

“I´m afraid so. I wanted to minimize any movement that might jeopardize their cover, but we knew this

was only a matter of time. Contact Queron and tell him what´s about to happen. I don´t see how it can

be more than a few days. Ask him and Tavis to come as soon as they can do so without arousing

suspicion. If it becomes more urgent than that, we´ll let them know. At least we´ll have gotten our part in

motion.’

Jesse nodded. “I´ll try to get through at midday. It may have to wait until tonight, though.’

“Can´t be helped.’ Joram crumpled the curl of parchment into a stiff little ball, then opened his hand to

gaze at it sitting on his palm. After a few seconds, it burst into flame with a bright flare and a pop that

made Jesse start.

“So, for poor Alroy,’ Joram whispered as he tipped the burning parchment off his hand. “The king is

about to be dead; long live the king. Let´s just hope it´s the right king.’

Chapter One

And I will give children to be their princes, and babes shall rule over them.

-Isaiah 3:4

King Alroy was dying. The Healer Oriel had tried to persuade himself otherwise for days, but the

sweat-drenched sixteen-year-old fretting feverishly under even a single layer of limp sheeting was no

longer even conscious much of the time-though there were occasional lucid moments.

It was during one of those lucid moments, earlier in the day, that Alroy had rallied enough to ask that his

bed be moved into one of the ground-level rooms opening onto the castle gardens, where the windows

might admit a little breeze. A breeze had come, with the setting of the sun, spilling the heady perfume of

roses into the room, but there still was little enough respite from the heat, even this late at night. Summer

had arrived early this year, and with uncharacteristic harshness. These first weeks of June had seemed

more like August at its worst, the air still and stifling, heavy with humidity. Even the usually proper Oriel

was stripped down to breeches and a thin linen shirt, open at the throat, the full sleeves pushed well up

above his elbows.

A young squire offered a basin of cool water, and Oriel wrung out another cloth in it, touching the back

of one hand against his royal patient´s cheek before laying the cloth across the brow. Alroy Haldane had

never been robust, and fever had burned away what little spare flesh there once had been on the boy´s

slight frame, so that what remained resembled all too closely the stark planes of the effigy even now being

prepared to lie beneath Rhemuth Cathedral. The sable hair, cut short around his face, was plastered to

his skull like a glistening ebon cap.

The king moaned and stirred a little, teeth clenched as if against a chill, even though the fever burned still,

and the heat of the summer night as well. The court physicians had given him syrup of poppies earlier in

the evening, when even Oriel´s feared Deryni powers had not been able to stop a particularly bad bout of

hacking that seemed actually apt to end in the king coughing up part of his lungs. He slept now, but his

breathing was labored and liquid-sounding; Oriel, like the king´s human physicians, knew that the king´s

illness and his life were drawing inexorably toward their close.

“He-isn´t getting any better, is he, sir?’ the squire whispered, turning worried eyes on the Healer as Oriel

wrung out another cold compress. The boy´s name was Fulk Fitz-Arthur, and he was two years younger

than the king. His father was one of the lords of state waiting for word in the anteroom outside.

Oriel sighed and shook his head as he changed the compress, pausing then to set his fingertips to the

king´s sweat-drenched temples. Though he had no doubt what he would find, he sent his Healer´s senses

deep into the ailing king, reading again what he already knew, to his heart´s despair-that the boy´s lungs

were nearly eaten away with disease and filling with fluid. Court gossip had it that the boy´s father had

perished of a similar ailment, with Healers far more skilled than Oriel helpless to save him.

Somehow that knowledge did little to ease Oriel´s sense of helplessness, of failure, the cosmic injustice

that, even given the almost godlike powers that condemned him to the servitude of the lords of state, else

he suffer death the first time he used them unauthorized, those powers were not sufficient to save the boy

beneath his hands.

Alroy stirred and moaned as Oriel withdrew, the grey eyes flickering and then opening in another of those

increasingly rare lucid moments. His pupils were wide from the drugs they had given him, but he made a

gallant effort to focus on Oriel, one fragile hand shifting from under the sheet to reach toward the Healer´s

wrist.

“Oriel, what time is it?’ he whispered.

“Near midnight, Sire,’ the Healer replied, taking the king´s hand and leaning closer to hear. “You should

go back to sleep. If you talk too much, you´ll set yourself coughing again.’

“I want to see my brother,’ Alroy murmured. “Have they called him?’

Setting his lips, Oriel gently chafed the royal hand between his own, knowing that the brother the king´s

ministers had called was not the brother Alroy wanted to see. The Haldane Ring of Fire shifted under his

fingers, for Alroy had refused to set it aside, even in his illness, even though loss of weight had made it

loose on his hand and likely to fall off-though somehow, it never did.

“Prince Rhys Michael is without, Sire,’ Oriel murmured, choosing his words with care, lest young Fulk

relay it back to his father as some criticism of the royal ministers´ handling of the situation. “Shall I ask

him to come to you?’

At the same time, he set the psychic suggestion that Alroy should make his request of Rhys Michael, for

Oriel dared not- and Rhys Michael was the one person who might be able to insist that the king´s wishes

were carried out.

Alroy gave no outward sign that the suggestion had registered, but he gave a weak nod. “Yes. Please. I

should like to see Rhys Michael.’

Bowing over the royal hand, Oriel pressed his lips to it briefly, then laid it gently at die king´s side.

“Stay with the King´s Grace, Fulk,’ he said to the squire, “and continue changing the compresses. I´ll

summon his Highness.’

He braced himself for almost certain unpleasantness as he withdrew, at least pulling his sleeves into place

and doing up the wrists before he went into the anteroom outside the king´s bedchamber.

Lord Tammaron, young squire Fulk´s father, was there, along with Archbishop Hubert and one of

Hubert´s nephews, Lord Iver MacInnis. Rhys Michael, the king´s younger brother, was standing before

the dark opening of an empty fireplace, one arm laid along the cool stone of its mantel and chimney

breast, and looked up anxiously as Oriel came in.

“How is he?’ Tammaron demanded, before the prince could speak.

“He´s resting as peacefully as may be expected, my lord,’ Oriel replied. “However, he´s asked to see his

brother.’ He turned his gaze pointedly toward Rhys Michael, three months short of his fifteenth birthday,

but already nearly grown to the adult stature his elder brother would never live to achieve. “If you´d care

to come with me, your Highness?’

Before any of his elders could forbid it, Rhys Michael was bolting toward Oriel and the door, slicking his

sweat-damp hair back over his ears and tugging at a fold of his long, belted tunic of royal blue. The wide

sleeves were rolled to his elbows against the heat, and Oriel could see the clean-limbed flash of long,

bare legs and sandals through the high-slit sides-sensible attire in the heat, even for a prince. Archbishop

Hubert looked to be stifling in a cassock of purple silk buttoned right up to his multiple chins, sweat

darkening a streak down the center of his chest and extending crescentwise underneath both heavy arms.

“Your Highness, please allow me to accompany you,’ Hubert began, the edge to his voice quite belying

the formal words of courtesy-though he did not manage to set his own bulk into motion until Rhys

Michael was already halfway across the room.

A cringing look of apprehension flashed across the prince´s face at the words, though only Oriel could

see it, but Rhys Michael did not turn until he had reached the Healer´s side.

“Actually, I´d prefer to see my brother alone, if you don´t mind,’ he said, lifting his chin in an uncustomary

show of spirit. “I-may not have many more chances.’

He turned away at that, eyes averted, anxiety for his brother clouding the handsome Haldane face. Oriel

made a point of not meeting the eyes of any of the others in the anteroom as he stood aside to let the

prince pass-though he expected he would answer for the defiance later-only following close behind and

closing the door.

The prince was already at the royal bedside as Oriel turned, picking up Alroy´s slack left hand to kiss it.

The king´s eyes opened at the touch, his grey gaze locking on his brother´s as Oriel slipped in on his

other side-unobtrusive as possible, but knowing he must remain nearby, for Alroy almost certainly would

begin coughing if he said very much. The Healer had no need to resort to Deryni perceptions to perceive

the brothers´ genuine love for one another. The squire Fulk had withdrawn to a side table with the basin

of water and cool compresses, trying not to look as if he were watching and listening.

“Alroy?’ Rhys Michael whispered.

The king managed a thin, taut smile.

“You´re here,’ he said weakly. “I´m glad. But where is Javan? I have to see him.’

Rhys Michael swallowed once, the sound almost startling in the still, heavy night, and ducked his head

over the hand he held cradled to his chest.

“He´s at Arx Fidei, in the seminary,’ he murmured. “You know that.’

“But he´s my heir,’ Alroy insisted, wide, drug-dilated eyes searching his brother´s face. “I´m dying-’

“No, you´re not!’

“Rhysem, I am,’ Alroy went on, reverting to the pet name that had developed between them these last

few years. “I´m going to die, and there´s nothing that the stupid court physicians or even our good

Master Oriel can do to prevent it.’ His eyes flicked briefly to Oriel, who hung his head in helplessness.

“Don´t you remember how our father went?’

As the king paused to stifle a cough with his free hand, his exertion already stirring up his illness, Oriel let

his left hand ease unobtrusively to the royal shoulder, where young Fulk hopefully would not notice,

daring to extend his powers just a little to give the king ease. At the same time, Rhys Michael tightened

his grip on the hand he held, trying to will strength across the link of their fraternal love. Whether from

that or from Oriel´s ministrations, Alroy did manage to stop coughing.

“I must see our brother before I die, Rhysem,’ the king continued, when he had caught his breath. “You

must make them send for him.’

“But I can´t. They´ll never listen-’

“They´ll listen if you insist,’ Alroy said. “You´re not a child anymore. You´re nearly a year past your legal

majority. And if they should manage to bypass Javan and make you king-as is certainly their intention, if

you let them-then they´ll have to answer to you in your full authority, without recourse to regents. Remind

them of that-and that Haldane memories are long!’

As Alroy had spoken, increasingly fighting to get each word out, a kind of hope had begun to light Rhys

Michael´s eyes-for he truly did not want the crown that, by rights, should pass next to the king´s twin.

“You´re right,’ he murmured. “I am of age. They aren´t our regents anymore. And if I did become king, I

could really make them sorry they´d disobeyed me!’

“Whereas, if they send for Javan,’ Alroy rasped, “as is my deathbed wish, the new king may be inclined

to be clement, whoever he may be.’ Alroy coughed again, and Oriel knew he could not control it much

longer.

“Go now,’ Alroy gasped, around another cough. “If a rider leaves now, he can be back by dawn. I don´t

know that I can last much past then.’

As coughing took him again, so that Oriel had to roll him on his side and then into a sitting position,

motioning for Fulk to bring more of the extract of poppies, a moist-eyed Rhys Michael gave his brother´s

hand a final squeeze, then turned on his heels and fled. He drew himself up just before he got to the door,

pausing with both hands on the latch and head bowed for just a moment to draw deep breath and gird

himself for the confrontation ahead. Then he raised his head like the Haldane prince he was and pushed

down the latch, moving through and closing the door behind him before the three men waiting could even

get to their feet.

“The king commands that our brother Javan be summoned,’ he said, his face taut but composed. “This is

my command, as well. And before you consider defying the command of a dying king,’ he added,

holding up a hand to still the objection already forming on the lips of young Iver MacInnis, “consider

whether you also wish to defy the man you desire to have as your next king. For if I should ever become

king, gentlemen-though that is not my desire-I assure you that I shall not forget this night.’

As he looked pointedly past Iver at Earl Tammaron and Iver´s uncle the archbishop, the rotund Hubert

bit at his rosebud lips and made a short little bow.

“The king´s wish is our command, of course, your Highness, but is it altogether wise to drag your royal

brother from his studies? The king is not yet in danger of death; he has not requested the Last Rites. With

all due respect, these final days could drag on for weeks or even months, as was the case for your

Highness´ sainted father. Time enough, in due time, to send for Prince Javan, if that is still the king´s

desire.’

“It is the king´s command,’ Rhys Michael said evenly, fighting back the panic he dared not allow himself

to show-for it frightened him that Alroy himself had indicated that he might not last much past dawn.

“Furthermore, it is the king´s command that our brother be summoned now. If you are unwilling to do it,

then I shall do it myself. Guard!’ he called.

He was already moving toward the door to the outer corridor before any of the three truly believed he

was going to do it. Only just in time did Earl Tammaron grab young Iver´s arm and stop him from trying

to physically prevent the prince from leaving, earning the earl a sparse nod of acknowledgment from Rhys

Michael and Iver a raking glance of disdain.

“I suggest that you tread very softly, Iver MacInnis,’ the prince said in a low voice, as the outer door

opened to admit a guard liveried in Haldane crimson. “And if ever you dare to lay hands upon our royal

person, I promise that you shall not live long to regret the impertinence.’

Eyes as cold as only Haldane anger could make them, he turned back to the guard before giving Iver a

chance to reply, pushing past when he saw who it was, for he doubted that most of the ordinary guards

would take important orders from him without confirmation of one of the lords of state. He needed one

of the younger knights.

Quickly he glanced down the corridor outside. In the open passage beyond, which linked this wing of the

castle with the next, perhaps a dozen lesser gentlemen of the court were lounging along the arched

colonnade that faced the castle gardens, some awaiting word of the king, others simply seeking the

promise of cooler air from the gardens beyond. Among them was a man whom Rhys Michael thought

certain he could trust.

“Sir Charlan!’ he called, raising a hand in summons as the young man rose at the sound of his name.

Nearly three years before, when Javan Haldane had withdrawn from public life to test a possible religious

vocation-for so had been the official explanation-Charlan Kai Morgan had been the last squire to serve

him. Despite the petty spying required of all the royal squires by the regents-and the squires had been

quite open about telling their royal masters what they had been ordered to do-there had been mutual

respect and genuine liking between squire and master. Though Charlan had readily accepted his transfer

into the king´s household for the remaining two years before his knighting, Rhys Michael knew from

talking to his own former squire, Sir Tomais, that Charlan still spoke fondly of his former master. Alroy

had knighted both young men at the previous year´s Christmas Court.

Now, as the young knight approached, blond head bobbing in respect, Rhys Michael wondered whether

Charlan would dare to assert, as a man, that old loyalty he had shown to Javan as a squire. The regents

were regents no longer, and all answered to a king now two years come into his majority-even if that king

was dying.

“You wish something, your Highness?’ Charlan said.

“Yes, I do.’ Rhys Michael pitched his voice so that it could be heard by the others drifting closer, so that

there would be witnesses. “What is more important, your king wishes something, on behalf of your future

king.’ Let his other listeners take that as they wished.

“The king desires that Prince Javan be summoned to court immediately.’ He watched Charlan´s face light

at those words and knew he had chosen the right man. “Therefore, you are to take a dozen knights as

escort, mount yourself and them on the fastest horses in the royal stables, and proceed with all haste to

Arx Fidei Abbey, where you will escort His Royal Highness back to Rhemuth with all possible speed.’

He pulled the silver signet from the little finger of his left hand, the seal with the Haldane arms differenced

by the label of a third son, and put it in the hand that Charlan held out to receive it.

“This will be your authority to procure whatever is necessary for your journey,’ he said. “Know that you

travel with my goodwill as well as that of the king. And if my brother should question that this is, indeed,

my desire-’ He faltered briefly as he considered, then reached to his right earlobe. “I bid you give him

this.’

Quickly he removed the earring of twisted gold, mate to one that Javan himself once had worn-though

Javan had been forced to put aside both his earring and his signet when he entered the abbey. Javan

would recognize it, though-and that his brother would not part with his unless there were dire cause, for

their father had given them the earrings not long before his death.

Charlan glanced at both items, the ring and the earring, then slipped the signet over the end of his middle

finger for safekeeping and wrapped the earring in a handkerchief that he tucked into the pouch slung

below the white belt of his knighthood. The sleeveless leather jerkin over his full-sleeved linen shirt would

take him to Arx Fidei well enough, but he was barelegged and sandaled like many of the men who had

been lounging in the breezeway and now drifted closer to see what was amiss.

“I shall be away as quickly as I may, your Highness,’ Charlan said, joining his hands palm to palm and

extending them to the prince, dropping to one knee as he did so. “I give you my renewed pledge, as I

gave it at my knighting, that I am the king´s loyal man.’

He bowed his head as Rhys Michael took the hands between his in the time-hallowed gesture of fealty

accepted.

“Not on my own behalf, but in the name of the king who is and the king who shall be, I bid you go, Sir

Charlan,’ the prince whispered.’ “Javan shall be king next-not me. Go to him now- quickly. Please!’

As Charlan rose and turned away, already summoning those men to his side who would ride with him to

Arx. Fidei, Rhys Michael watched him go. He had asserted himself as a prince and as a man, as was his

right and duty, but he felt like an errant schoolboy just the same. He wondered if Archbishop Hubert

would have him whipped-and what he would do, if Hubert tried it. The archbishop once had had Javan

whipped for disobedience-but Rhys Michael was not and never had been under obedience to Hubert the

way Javan had been. He didn´t think Hubert would dare.

Still, he did not relish the next few hours, or facing the men in the room between him and his dying

brother.

Chapter Two

Behold, I come quickly: hold that fast which thou hast, that no man take thy crown.

-Revelations 3:11

Three hours´ ride from Rhemuth, the cloister garden attached to the seminary at Arx Fidei Abbey was

still and silent-no less stifling than at the capital, but the Haldane prince who sought its refuge in the

stillness of the summer night at least had fewer immediate concerns than his two brothers. Following

Matins, the Great Office of the night, after which every soul under the discipline of the abbey fell under

the Great Silence until after Morning Prayer, Javan had passed quietly through the processional door and

into the cloister garth rather than returning to his cell via the night stair.

Now he settled quickly on the granite curbing around the carp pool-to meditate, should anyone inquire. It

was one of the few indulgences he had gained in his two years here: permission to enjoy the gardens in

solitude while the rest of the abbey slept. It had caused its own stir among the abbey´s hierarchy, for the

abbot, a strict Custodes Fidei priest named Father Halex, did not approve of any divergence from the

strict discipline and regimentation expected of his seminarians.

Fortunately, Javan was no ordinary seminarian. Even though also a clerk in minor orders, he was also a

prince. Royal blood could demand some privileges. Yet even this concession had taken the intervention

of the archbishop, and then only after several months of exemplary behavior at Arx Fidei and as a

grudging recognition of Javan´s having come of age and being, therefore, free to leave altogether, if he

insisted.

Though what a fourteen-year-old heir presumptive might have done better with his time for the next few

years, even Javan had to agree was a moot point. Far better to spend those years between legal and

actual manhood as he was doing, acquiring the formal education that would stand him in good stead if he

eventually became king, as seemed more and more likely-so long as the lords of state did not manage

some trick to bypass him and give the crown to his younger brother, now of age, as well, but who was

thought to be less clever and more biddable.

Sighing heavily, Javan pulled off the stiff, hooded scapular that was part of the habit of the detested

Custodes Fidei, though long training bade him fold it neatly before dropping it on the parched grass

beside the carp pool. The black soutane he wore as a seminarian fastened at the right shoulder and down

the right side, and he undid enough of the buttons to loosen the standing collar, briefly pulling the opening

away from his neck a few times to puff air inside. Then he hiked the garment´s hem up above his knees

and shifted himself slightly around to the left so he could swing his sandaled left foot up onto the granite

Katherine Kurtz - Heirs 02 - King Javan's Year

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