King Javan’s Year

by Katherine Kurtz

  More of Alroy’s lords of state had gathered in the anteroom since his arrival. Two of the knights who had accompanied him and Charlan from the yard had taken up stations just inside the door that opened to the corridor, one to each side, casual but alert. Charlan himself still stood easy vigilance with his back to the door jamb, arms folded across his chest, half blocking the doorway to any further entrance or egress. Beyond him, Javan could see Tomais with Bertrand and more of the other knights who had ridden with him, quietly congregated outside.

  There were not many seats in the anteroom, for it was not large, but those who were seated came to their feet as Javan appeared, the same question in every pair of eyes.

  “The king yet lives, gentlemen,” he said quietly, “but the end is drawing near. Archbishop, may I see you, please?”

  At the direct address, a flushed and suspicious-looking Hubert drew himself erect and made his ponderous way forward, inclining his head as Javan stepped back into the room with a slight bow and indicated that Hubert should follow.

  “I trust this betokens a change of heart, Brother Javan,” Hubert said in a low voice as the prince closed the door behind them. “Do I dare to hope that the king has managed to remind you where your true duty lies?”

  Javan controlled his growing disgust at the hypocrisy of the man and kept his voice equally low and uninflected.

  “Indeed, I am reminded of a Christian duty that takes precedence over any personal consideration, your Grace,” he said quietly. “It has always been my brother’s wish, as a faithful son of the Church, to receive the full solace of the Sacraments before he dies. I understand that you gave him Unction during the night, but that he has declined to receive Communion. Can you explain why that might be?”

  Hubert lifted both hands in a gesture of denial. “The King’s Grace is not himself, from the illness and the drugs. I offered him the Blessed Sacrament, but he would not receive it.”

  “He is ready to receive it now,” Javan murmured, adding only in his mind, but not from you.

  A tiny, self-satisfied smile curved at the archbishop’s rosebud mouth. “It will be my privilege, of course. No priest could desire any greater fulfillment than to minister thus to a dying man.”

  “Then please do so.”

  “I shall need but a moment,” Hubert replied.

  Inclining his head in what he hoped the archbishop would take for a sign of conciliation, Javan opened the door to allow Hubert’s passage, then closed it behind him and leaned his head briefly against the door jamb, calming and centering himself before he turned back to beckon to Rhys Michael.

  “Be ready to follow my lead when he comes back,” he whispered to his brother. “And Oriel, please try not to look surprised at anything you may see or hear.”

  As Rhys Michael approached, both he and Oriel giving Javan odd looks, a quiet rap at the door preceded the turning of the door latch. Touching one finger across his lips in a gesture for silence, Javan drew Rhys Michael to one side with him and turned his gaze attentively to the opening door.

  Slowly the door swung inward to reveal two ornate candlesticks held by the two Custodes priests, who had donned wilted white surplices over their cassocks and looked very warm. Behind them, reverently bearing the veiled ciborium at his breast, came a sweating and pink-faced Hubert, his already-damp purple cassock now layered under a surplice lavish with lace. In the room behind him, everyone had gone to their knees in respect to the Blessed Sacrament passing among them.

  Crossing himself piously, Javan also bent in respect, but only to touch one knee to the floor in a genuflection. Rhys Michael haltingly did the same. As Javan stood, he moved forward with authority to put both hands on the candlestick held by one of the startled Custodes.

  “My brother and I will serve as his Grace’s acolytes today, good Fathers,” Javan said to the priests, glancing back to call Rhys Michael forward, then looking beyond them at Hubert when his man did not immediately relinquish the candlestick. “I ask most humbly that you permit this, your Grace. We have served this way before. It would mean a great deal to us—and to the king, I believe.”

  Though a little taken aback, Hubert hesitated only briefly before nodding dismissal to the two priests. Javan’s candlestick was heavy in his hands as he took its weight, inclining his head in a proper ecclesiastical bow.

  When the door had closed behind the departing priests, Javan and his brother made Hubert proper bows as well, the candlesticks held carefully aloft, then turned to lead the way over to the royal bed, where Oriel had sunk dutifully to his knees as Hubert entered, though one hand still maintained contact with the unconscious king. Rhys Michael went to Oriel’s side; and when Javan had led the archbishop around to the other side, he turned to set his free hand on one of Hubert’s wrists, close to where he grasped the ciborium, at the same time using the physical contact to trigger the controls he had set so long ago and so rarely had dared to use.

  “Close your eyes, Archbishop,” he commanded softly, at the same time holding out his candlestick for Rhys Michael to take. “Close your eyes and hear my words. You cannot resist.”

  As Hubert meekly obeyed, Rhys Michael took the second candlestick and passed it to Oriel to set on the bedside table, prince and Healer both wide-eyed. Heart pounding, Javan shifted his now-empty hand under the ciborium’s veil to cup under its bowl, suddenly aware of the potency of what Hubert held—and that whatever he did would be Witnessed by the sacred energy focused in the Sacrament.

  Javan shivered at that realization. He meant no sacrilege, no disrespect. But he must ensure that his brother was allowed to receive that Sacrament in the manner of his choosing, from hands he could respect; and those hands were not Hubert’s hands. Trusting that God would understand, Javan took the ciborium away from Hubert and set it on the little table on his side of the bed, then led Hubert back across the room and sat him down on a stool that groaned under his weight.

  “My brother will receive Communion now, Archbishop,” he said quietly, setting his hand firmly on Hubert’s sweating forehead, “but not from your hands. My Holy Orders still are valid, so I shall offer him this gift. You will sit here with your eyes closed and say and do nothing and remember nothing. Sleep deep now and hear nothing until I call you by name. Hear and remember nothing.”

  The archbishop actually began to snore, so deeply did he sleep. As Javan came back to his brother’s bed, Oriel was staring at him in amazement, and Rhys Michael looked very scared.

  “Oriel, please help him to sit,” Javan whispered as he came and picked up the ciborium.

  Gently, tenderly, Oriel eased Alroy onto his back again, then slid one arm under the king’s shoulders and lifted him up. Alroy’s breathing had changed as the Healer turned him, and rattled faintly with a wet, liquid sound. Supporting him against his left shoulder, Oriel laid his right hand over the ravaged lungs.

  “Come back to us now, Alroy,” he whispered softly in the king’s ear, at the same time easing him back to consciousness and clamping his controls more tightly on the pain and the reflexes that would set him coughing again.

  At once the black eyelashes fluttered, no pain showing in the grey eyes that wandered dreamily for a few seconds, then focused on the veiled cup that Javan held. The king blinked once, then shifted his gaze to the one who held the cup.

  “The Blessed Sacrament,” he murmured in wonder. “But what will Hubert—”

  “Never mind Hubert,” Javan whispered, shaking his head. “If you want it from someone besides him, it has to be me and it has to be now.”

  Alroy swallowed hard and nodded, tears welling in the grey eyes, and Javan bowed his head over the cup in his hand, casting back in memory for words he often had heard at Arx Fidei when nursing the dying.

  “O Lord of Hosts, Heavenly Father,” he said, translating from the Latin for Alroy’s benefit, “we beg Thee at this moment, above all, to deliver this Thy servant Alroy from all evil and to strengthen him with the Bread of Life, the Body of our Lor
d the Christ, Who lives and reigns with Thee for ever and ever. Amen.”

  “Amen” came the hushed response from Rhys Michael and Oriel, mouthed as well by Alroy.

  Hands trembling, Javan lifted the veiled lid off the ciborium and laid it aside on the table beside the bed. He had never actually given anyone Communion before, but again he called upon the memories of watching others do it, reverently extracting a single Host from the golden cup and holding it above, where Alroy could see it clearly.

  “Ecce Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi,” he murmured, shifting to the traditional Latin. Behold the Lamb of God, who taketh away the sins of the world.

  “Domine, non sum dignus …” Alroy whispered, echoed by the others. Lord, I am not worthy that Thou shouldst come under my roof. Speak but the word, and my soul shall be healed …

  With that, Javan made the Sign of the Cross over his brother with the Host, recalling another prayer as he put it reverently on his brother’s tongue.

  “Receive, my brother, this food for your journey, the Body of our Lord Jesus Christ, that He may guard you from the malicious enemy and lead you into everlasting life. Amen.”

  “Amen,” Alroy whispered, closing his eyes until, after a moment’s labored effort, he swallowed.

  “Javan?” he whispered weakly then, before Javan could cover the cup. “One thing more—please.”

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “Will—you and Rhysem and Oriel receive Holy Communion as well?” He stifled a little cough. “I know that no one can go with me on—my final journey, but—will you accompany me this far, at least?”

  Greatly moved, for he had not expected this, Javan bowed his head over the golden cup again, allowing the others time to prepare as well as himself, then dutifully gave them Communion. By the time he carefully put the cover back on the ciborium, he could hardly see for the tears; and as he set the vessel back on the table beside the bed, Alroy surrendered to a long-suppressed coughing bout.

  It curled him onto his side again and left him gasping when Oriel at last managed to control it. The cloth he had jammed against his lips as he coughed came away stained with red. The young king’s face was white but composed as he straightened once more in the Healer’s arms and cast his gaze first to Rhys Michael, then to Javan, finally laying his right hand atop Oriel’s, over his heart.

  “I—think it’s—time for that cup now—Master Oriel,” he managed to gasp out, the breath rattling liquidly in his chest. “I—never was very—brave.”

  “I have—always thought you very brave, my prince,” Oriel whispered, reaching blindly for the cup, which Rhys Michael tearfully set in his hand. “But you need not worry about bravery anymore. You have fought the good fight; and God’s angels surely await you, to escort you to His bosom.”

  He brought the cup to the king’s lips without wavering, his supporting arm strong behind Alroy’s shoulders, suppressing the coughing so that the king could drain it in a few labored swallows. Javan, watching them together, fastened on Oriel’s mention of angels, recalling something else about angels, and another cup …

  All at once other memory came flooding back to him, memory long buried both by his own condition at the time and the design of those responsible—of the long-ago night when their father had died, and the moments just before, when a cup had been prepared in the presence of Beings of such immeasurable power that Javan’s knees started to buckle, even thinking about them. He gasped as the returning memory all but overwhelmed him, catching himself on the edge of the bed as Oriel laid Alroy back on the pillows.

  As the images flashed before him, Javan knew what he must do now, before Alroy slipped into the Nether world and the power never quite uncoiled in him was freed at last in Javan, who was his heir. Clasping his brother’s left hand in both of his, he raised it to his lips and bowed his head over it, closing his eyes.

  They summoned Archangels to witness what our father did and to escort him through the Gates of Death, Javan thought, fingering the Ring of Fire that so loosely encircled the third finger and sensing Alroy’s fading awareness of the contact. They summoned them for him, and I must summon them for you, dear brother.

  He made his thoughts a prayer as he lifted his entreaty to the powers that had come before, at the behest of the Deryni who had befriended the Haldane line.

  Hear me, mighty ones, he breathed. I know not the form by which to invite your presence, but I ask it now, for the sake of him who soon shall cross to your domain. I summon you, Raphael, Lord of Air; Michael, Lord of Fire; Gabriel, Lord of Water; and Uriel, dark Lord of Earth. Be here, I beseech you, to welcome him who shall pass and to carry him swiftly into the loving presence of the Most High.

  To his utter astonishment, listeners seemed to heed his petition. He dared not open his eyes or even raise his head, but in his mind’s eye he seemed to sense the vague forms of other presences suddenly surrounding the bed, broad-pinioned and powerful, surely taller than the room could hold, trailing gossamer robes of fog-grey and flame and palest aquamarine and the cool green-black of winter evergreens.

  Startled, he let his eyes open the merest slit. The exhausted and wheezing Alroy had sunk back on his pillows and was drifting into the oblivion of the potion Oriel had given him, no longer fighting the fluid that was filling his lungs and soon would drown him. Oriel himself knelt at his side, one hand still resting on the king’s arm to monitor, his eyes shifting restlessly across the air above the bed, perhaps sensing at least a little of what Javan was perceiving. A trembling Rhys Michael was bowed over Alroy’s right hand, cradling it in both of his, but Javan did not think he Saw.

  “He shall give His angels charge over thee,” Javan whispered aloud, returning his attention to Alroy, closing his eyes then as he reached out toward his brother’s mind. “Lord, let it be done according to Thy will. Into Thy hands we commend his spirit.”

  He could feel Alroy’s breathing falter under the trembling link of their clasped hands, growing ever weaker and more labored, but in his inner vision, the spirit essence of his brother seemed finally to rise slowly out of its disease-wracked body to a sitting position, turning its eyes just beyond Javan’s right shoulder. In spirit Javan turned as well—and beheld a figure he had not seen in many a year, and never quite like this.

  Almost close enough to touch, Javan fancied he could see the regal figure of their father Cinhil, cloaked from shoulder to ankles in a sweeping mantle of Haldane crimson that was cut like a cope. On a head only faintly touched by silver at the temples shone the State Crown of Gwynedd, with its motif of oak leaves and crosses intertwined. He nodded solemnly as his eyes briefly met Javan’s; but then all his attention was for Alroy, the expression on his face one of joy and sadness mixed as he held out his arms to his eldest son.

  Javan longed to speak to him, but he could not seem to summon up any will to do so. Caught fast in mind and body, he watched numbly as Alroy’s spirit rose the rest of the way out of the wasted body and seemed to slide to its feet beside him, laying one spirit hand on his arm and with the other pointing to the physical hand Javan still held—to the ring on the now-relaxing finger.

  Then the figure was moving into the embrace of their father and the two images were blurring into one. At the same time, Javan was overwhelmed by the powerful impression of wings buffeting the air around him, stirring to the very depths of his soul, lifting up and away with such force that Javan swayed on his knees, only his grip on Alroy’s now-limp hand keeping him grounded to the mortal world. At the very end, he seemed to hear the silvery chime of bells, gradually fading into silence; and when he finally opened his eyes, he had no doubt that Alroy was gone.

  Stunned, he forced himself to look around. Oriel apparently had sensed something, for his head was bowed to rest on the edge of the bed, both forearms arched over his head, rocking a little on his knees. Rhys Michael was sobbing unabashedly over the hand he still held.

  But Javan dared not spare them any of his attention just yet. One last duty to Alr
oy remained to be done. Very quietly, and without letting himself think about it too much, he eased the Ring of Fire from Alroy’s slack hand and brought it to his lips, bestowing a reverent kiss. Then, silently invoking the witness of Those he had called—Whom he hoped were still there—he slid the ring onto his finger.

  A chill shivered up his spine despite the heat, but he felt little else. He wondered if that was all there was to it—though all, in his case, might be a very great deal indeed, for he thought that no one else besides a Deryni or a saint could have experienced what he had just experienced. Given the unexpected appearance of his father, he had to wonder that no further memory had returned of what had been done to him—but no time just now to worry overly about that.

  No, first on the agenda, right now, was to ensure that he was, in fact, to be king; and that involved squaring things—or appearing to square them—with Archbishop Hubert. Time enough, later on, to perhaps reestablish the long-dormant links with his Deryni teachers and see if he could bring his talents to their intended potential.

  He slipped the ring back on the dead Alroy’s finger and lurched to his feet, intending to go and deal with the sleeping archbishop, but he was hit by such a wave of weariness that he nearly passed out. He jostled the bed as he caught his balance, also rousing Oriel.

  “Sire?” the Healer breathed as he raised his head. “Are you all right?”

  Swallowing, Javan turned his gaze to focus on the Healer. The moment of light-headedness had passed, but it had reminded him poignantly of his fatigue, already with him when he arrived in Rhemuth and doubtless made worse by what he had just experienced.

  “I’ll be all right,” he whispered. “Too much exertion, not enough sleep—”

  “I can do something about that,” Oriel said.

  Javan shook his head. “No time just now. If I take the time to sleep, I may end up sleeping for all eternity.”