He went on for several more paragraphs, expressing his concern for his brother’s general health and bringing the final length of the report to three closely crabbed pages. He would have continued except that he felt he dared not make the packet any thicker than it was already going to be. After rereading what he had written, he sanded the final lines to finish drying them, then twice folded the three sheets together into thirds, sealing the packet shut with his signet pressed to a wafer of crimson wax. He debated whether he should leave it unaddressed, but then went ahead and inscribed Tavis’ name on the outside—for that would be no more damning than what was inside, if he was caught before he could deliver it.
After that, he slipped it inside the breast of his outer tunic, next to his heart, and went out into the receiving room that adjoined his sleeping chamber, yawning. Charlan and Tomais, Rhys Michael’s senior squire, were playing at Cardounet over near the fire, but both rose as the prince entered.
“Ah, who’s winning?” Javan asked, coming over to survey the board. “Charlan, I think he’s trouncing you.”
Sheepishly, Charlan put down the piece he had been about to move. The men were carved of ebony and ivory, the board inlaid with light and dark woods. The set once had been the property of Javan’s father.
“Well, then, your Highness, I’d thought to let him win this time, he usually does so badly!”
Javan smiled. “Is that true, Tomais?”
The dark-haired squire grinned. “He wasn’t saying that just a while ago, your Highness, when I captured his war duke.”
“I see.” Javan surveyed the board again, then reached for a warm, fur-lined cloak he had left draped over a stool beside the table. “Well, I hate to spoil your fun, Tomais, but I’m afraid you’ll have to find another opponent. Charlan, I thought we’d go to Vespers in the cathedral this afternoon. We may not get another chance for a while, since we’re leaving for Rhemuth the day after tomorrow.”
It was clear from Charlan’s expression that Vespers at the cathedral was not high on his list of priorities, for snow was coming down steadily outside, but he nodded amiably enough, tipping over his priest-king in surrender before helping Javan with his cloak. Javan had already drawn on heavier boots than his usual wont, as well as donning an extra tunic, and waited patiently while Charlan also changed into more suitable attire for venturing outside.
They arrived at the cathedral early for Vespers, though the light was fast failing because of the snow. Servers were already lighting the candles as Javan and Charlan slipped into their places in the royal stall, close up beside the altar on the Gospel side. What praying Javan did, while they waited for the service to begin, was directed more toward the success of his plans than spiritual enlightenment, but he was heartened to see that at least a part of his prayer had been answered when the elderly and kind Father Stephen entered with the choir to conduct the service. Javan paid little attention to the actual scriptures sung that evening, but he excused himself as soon as the service was over to follow the old priest into the sacristy.
“I’d like Father Stephen to hear my confession,” he told Charlan. “Wait here. I shan’t be long.”
The old priest was putting his surplice away in a vestment press when Javan eased open the door of the sacristy, and looked up in surprise as the prince entered.
“Your Highness. You really shouldn’t be here, you know.”
Javan ducked his head contritely, trying what he hoped was one of his more disarming expressions. “We shall be leaving Valoret in a few days, Father, and I—wanted a chance to say good-bye.”
The priest’s face immediately softened. “Oh. That’s right. I had nearly forgotten. Why, that’s very kind of you, my boy. I’m very touched that you should think of a humble priest like myself.”
“Well, you have given me some very moving spiritual direction,” Javan murmured, trying to edge a little closer to the part of the Kheldish carpet that Tavis had told him once marked the room’s Portal. “In fact, I was hoping you might hear my confession one last time, before I go.”
“Oh.” The priest seemed quite taken aback. “Well, of course, my son, if you wish it,” he murmured. “But—would your Highness not prefer to go out to one of the confessionals?”
“Oh, no,” Javan replied, gesturing toward the little vesting altar, with its tabernacle and Presence lamp. “In here, He is closer by, to give me strength while I unburden my soul. I pray you, let me kneel here at your feet, to receive your shriving this last time.”
“Ah. Very well, then.”
As the priest turned to rummage in the press for a stole, Javan cast out with his mind, searching for the Portal, but he had found nothing by the time Father Stephen turned back to him, setting a stole of purple silk around his shoulders.
“Come here, then, my son,” Father Stephen beckoned, as he settled himself on a stool beside the press.
Dutifully folding his hands, Javan came to him, knowing that he must try a desperate measure if he hoped to find what he was looking for. He had controlled the guard Norris; he had read his own brother without his knowledge. Now he must try to put this old priest to sleep, so he could pursue his own investigations.
He made himself stumble as he went to kneel before Stephen, so that it was a completely natural thing to catch himself on the hands the priest automatically raised to steady him. At the same time, as the contact was made, he sent his command racing across the link, to sleep!
Stephen’s eyelids fluttered and closed even as his breath, drawn to caution Javan not to fall, exhaled in a slow, relaxed sigh and the priest subsided on the stool, head bowing onto his chest.
Good man, Javan breathed. Sleep deep now, even as I release your hands, and do not stir until I command it.
The old man did not move as Javan rose, and remained sunk deep in slumber as Javan dared to step back from him a few paces.
Success! He had done it! He had put Stephen to sleep, at least. Whether he would be able to revive him without any memory of the incident was another story, but Javan was sure he could do that, too. Drawing a deep breath, he darted back to the sacristy door and locked it, already framing a plausible explanation, should anyone try to enter, then returned to the squared design on the carpet. Kneeling, he turned back the edge to expose the stone flooring underneath, not at all surprised to see that the square of the carpet no longer coincided with the squared design he could make out in the stones themselves. The carpet must have gotten turned, when it was put back down, after Bishop Kai allegedly destroyed the Portal.
Unfortunately, “allegedly” no longer seemed to be the operative descriptor, for when Javan laid one hand on the square and the other on the stones outside its boundaries, he could feel a difference between the two; but what he felt from the square was not the distinctive tingle of an active Portal, but a dull, buzzing sensation that jangled his nerves after only a few seconds.
Blast! Then, Kai Descantor had destroyed the Portal. Which meant that, if Javan hoped to deliver his report, he must gain access to the one in Hubert’s quarters. He had tried not even to think about that possibility, but he did have at least a ghost of a plan, loath though he was to try it.
But he could do nothing here. And certainly, he could do nothing if he did not get Father Stephen back to normal and none the wiser for his experience.
Sighing softly, Javan folded the carpet back into place, crept quietly to the door to listen carefully for a moment before unlocking it, then tip-toed back to the dozing priest to kneel again at his feet, setting his hands on Stephen’s as he had when he pretended to catch himself. He extended his controls again then, blurring the priest’s memory just a little—for only a hundred heartbeats or less had passed while he made his inspection—and pressed hard on Stephen’s hands as he released him from sleep, at the same time wobbling a little on his knees.
“Ah, your pardon, Father! Sometimes my foot gives way, especially when it’s cold.”
“Oh, does it pain you, my son?” Stephen
said, leaning out to look at the foot in question. “I’m sorry to hear that. It must be very vexing.”
Javan dared to smile, fairly certain now that the priest had noticed nothing. “I try not to complain, Father. It is a cross I must bear, so I try to endure it as cheerfully as I may. In due time, perhaps God will make its purpose known to me.”
“In due time, I am certain He shall,” Stephen agreed. “But, you wished to confess, my son. Shall we proceed?”
“Certainly, Father.” Javan bowed his head and signed himself as he began the ritual exchange of phrases with the priest. “Bless me, for I have sinned. It has been a week since my last confession. These are my sins.”
In truth, it had been only a few days since his last confession, and he dared not confess certain things that he now did regularly—like what he had just done to Father Stephen himself—but he was able to produce enough petty failings and general contrition to satisfy the priest. When they had finished, Javan took his leave and went out into the choir again to kneel before the High Altar, lifting his eyes to the Christus there while he recited the few prayers that Father Stephen had assigned him as penance.
After that, he bowed his head to rest on his folded hands, elbows propped on the altar rail, and considered how he was going to get into Hubert’s apartments tonight—for tonight it must be, since tomorrow would be a flurry of activity in preparation for the next day’s departure. He heard Charlan shift, back in the choir stall where he had left him, but the squire knew better than to interrupt his young master at prayer. Besides, what possible harm could there be in kneeling before the High Altar?
Nearly an hour later, with the snow coming down even harder outside and the high windows black beyond their stained glass, Javan still had not moved, though he had begun to think of a plan. He ignored Charlan’s increasing coughs and shifts of position as well as the excruciating pain in his knees from kneeling on the unpadded marble of the altar step, waiting for footsteps. Very shortly, his patience was rewarded when one of the cathedral canons entered through a side door near the south transept, intending to close up for the evening. The canon might not have recognized Javan immediately, muffled all in greys and furs, black hair all but invisible in the light of votives only, but Charlan’s crimson Haldane livery was distinctive, even muffled under his black cloak. The other figure kneeling closer to the altar could only be one of the royal princes, and the canon could guess which one.
“Your Highness, it’s getting very late,” he murmured, resting a hand on the altar rail as he leaned close to Javan’s right ear. “In fact, I’m not even sure you can get back to the castle, it’s snowing so hard.”
Which was exactly what Javan had hoped to hear. Lifting his head, he turned a tear-streaked face toward the priest. He had worked hard to produce the tears while he knelt there, thinking back to all the saddest things he could, and the effort was rewarded by the look of dismay on the priest’s face. Now, to get the man on his side.
“Your Highness, is anything wrong?” the priest whispered.
Swallowing visibly, Javan made a point of turning his face back to the altar. “I—hoped I might stay here all night, Father,” he whispered. “I—have the feeling that God is trying to tell me something, only I—I don’t know what it is. It’s important, though. I know it is! And just now, I felt as if I were on the verge of a major revelation.”
The announcement clearly took the priest by surprise, orders warring with concern for a young man obviously greatly moved.
“Well, I—really don’t think you can stay here, your Highness,” he murmured. “The cathedral is normally closed at this hour to all except the Night Offices of the cathedral chapter. Besides that, I—don’t think the regents would approve of your staying out all night.”
Snuffling, Javan looked back over his shoulder at the rose window in the west wall. He could hear the wind whining in the doors and the snow hitting the glass; inwardly he rejoiced that the weather was worsening by the minute.
“I’ve kept all night vigils before, Father, in the Chapel Royal,” he murmured, glancing back searchingly at the uneasy priest and knowing he was going to have to help things along just a little. “I—you mustn’t tell anyone, but I’ve been thinking about a religious vocation.” He seized the priest’s hand with both of his and bowed his head over it, at the same time sending subtle encouragement for the man to help him.
“I don’t know what to do, Father. Right now, I’m torn between my duty to my House and what I think God is trying to tell me. How did you know, Father? How does anyone know what God intends for him?”
He had kept sending his suggestion as he spoke and he knew he was succeeding when the priest, tears in his eyes, gently rested his free hand on Javan’s head, tremblingly stroking the raven hair.
“My dear, dear boy,” the priest murmured. “I had no idea. Does the archbishop know about this?”
Snuffling again, and feeling vaguely hypocritical—for he did not feel any inclination whatever toward the religious life—Javan nodded. “He knows a little,” he whispered. “And I’m sure he wouldn’t disapprove. Maybe—maybe I could go and pray in his Grace’s chapel tonight, if you’re worried about me staying here. I can’t imagine that he would mind, and I’d certainly be safe enough.”
He felt relief flood through the priest, at being offered so easy a solution to an otherwise awkward problem, and soon he was following the man through the maze of covered passageways that led out along the cathedral yard and into the complex of the archbishop’s palace, Charlan walking resignedly behind—for Javan had, indeed, kept all night vigils before, especially in the last few weeks, already laying the groundwork for just such a mad scheme as he now sought to employ.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
He discovereth deep things out of darkness.
—Job 12:22
Simply gaining access to Archbishop Hubert’s Portal was not Javan’s real problem, of course. He was certain he could contrive some way to do that, if simple escape were his only aim.
Getting to the Portal secretly, however, using it to deliver his report, and then getting back out again, with no one the wiser, was another story entirely. Javan had no clear idea just how he was going to accomplish all that, but being admitted to the archbishop’s chapel, which he understood to be on the floor below the one where Hubert’s quarters lay, at least seemed like a good start.
It was a very grand chapel, too, for all that it was much smaller than Javan had expected. Javan’s jaw dropped as his escorting priest, whose name was Father Aloysius, threw open the gilded double doors and stood aside for him and Charlan to enter.
Javan had never seen such a room, all floored and walled and vaulted with some white stone that glittered slightly in the light of dozens of vigil candles set before a life-sized statue of the Virgin, just to the left of the altar. Behind the altar, a carved frieze of the same stone, some of it gilded, seemed to explode with angels bearing trumpets and thuribles and palm branches, all hovering above the splendid jewelled tabernacle that stood beneath an equally ornate Presence lamp. And the ceiling—
“I’ll tell the chamberlain you’re here, your Highness,” Father Aloysius told him nervously. “He’ll have a messenger sent up to the castle, so no one will worry. And did you wish to see the archbishop, or would you rather just be left alone? I believe His Grace may be entertaining the Vicar General of the Custodes Fidei to dinner this evening.”
“Oh, you needn’t disturb His Grace,” Javan replied, lowering his eyes in some alarm. And he certainly had no wish to face the Custodes’ Vicar General tonight. “I don’t mean to put anyone out. Besides, I don’t think this is really anything that anyone else can help me with. I need to work it out alone. I—feel that if I can just have this quiet time, maybe—I don’t know. It’s all so very confusing, Father.”
“I know, my son,” the priest whispered. He started to touch the prince’s bowed head for comfort, as he might have done for any lesser boy, but then thought better o
f it and merely made the sign of the cross above him. “God bless you in your quest, Prince Javan.”
“Thank you, Father.”
When the man had gone, Javan glanced sheepishly at Charlan, who was standing by the closed doors with a look of patient forbearance on his handsome face.
“Poor Charlan,” Javan said with a slightly embarrassed smile. “All this excessive kneeling doesn’t mean a great deal to you, does it, yet you endure it for my sake, when you’d far rather be back in your bed, especially on a night like this.”
Charlan shrugged deprecatingly and returned the smile. “It’s my honor to serve you, your Highness. If it pleases you to spend the night in prayer, then I am proud to watch with you.”
“Truly?”
“Truly, my lord.”
Javan smiled and shook his head, briefly resting a hand on one of Charlan’s wrists in a gesture both comradely and compelling. “Well, I can’t fault your loyalty. But do keep your watch here by the door, where you can at least sit for part of the time. And feel free to doze, if you like. I have some heaven-storming to do, but there’s no reason you should miss an entire night’s sleep.”
He turned to move farther into the chapel at that, but not before he saw Charlan covering an enormous yawn with one hand as he sat down on a bench set into a niche to the right of the doors.
Good. The yawn confirmed that the squire was now primed to do Javan’s bidding without question, and could be used with impunity to further Javan’s plan—once he figured out what that plan was.
But for now, before he could even think about actually doing anything else, Javan had to make sure his physical scenario was plausible, if anyone should come in. He bowed his head as he made his reverence before the altar, kneeling on the hard sleekness of the bottom altar step rather than at the single prie-dieu, for that surely must be Hubert’s. There was no altar rail to lean on, so he sank back on his heels and folded his hands in his lap, closing his eyes to the glitter of the chapel while he tried to think.
The Harrowing of Gwynedd Page 21
