Davin had been ground-driving one of Javan’s new R’Kassan stud colts in the breaking pen, dogging the animal a little too closely, and the beast had shied and skittered backwards, kicking him hard in the knee. The pain was excruciating. Javan and Tavis had been watching, and both of them had gone to Davin immediately for Tavis to assess the damage.
But when the prince’s Healer probed the great, already purpling bruise, he read nothing in his patient either Deryni or suspicious—only the surface apprehension which so many humans displayed when constrained to deal with a Deryni in these current times. Pronouncing the bone intact, Tavis sent cleansing warmth into the injury and cleared it in the space of only a few minutes, apparently thinking nothing further of it. Jaffray, when he learned of the incident while reading Davin later that evening, could only breathe a sigh of relief. At least the first hurdle had been crossed.
Unfortunately for Tavis, not all of his healing encounters were so benign.
As had been decided at Tammaron’s recommendation, and to fuel the theory that the Deryni who had attacked Tavis had really been after the princes, despite what Tavis claimed, the regency council set up regular patrols to scour the countryside and begin rounding up the marauding bands of both races. Humans were dealt with through the regular assize courts, tried where they were arrested and receiving ordinary punishments befitting vandalism, occasional assault, and general disorderly behavior—usually no more than a figurative slap on the hand for those of noble blood. The Deryni, however, Hubert caused to be brought to Rhemuth for trial, since it had been Deryni who had attacked Prince Javan’s Healer. There, as Jaffray had warned that he would, Hubert offered Tavis the opportunity to search among the prisoners for his attackers.
Especially in the beginning, Tavis needed little encouragement, for his desire for vengeance was strong when his injury was most recent. He had no desire to betray Deryni in general but he was desirous of finding out which, if any, of the prisoners had had a part in his mutilation. To get past balky shields, he was willing to resort to reason, threats, the many subtleties of his Healer’s craft, and even Deryni-specific drugs and force, if need be.
But once he had read them deeply enough to determine that they had not been involved in his attack, he had no interest in them. He would not delve deeper just to please Hubert, who was looking for any excuse to execute or at least incarcerate Deryni. As the weeks went by, Tavis’s lust for vengeance diminished and Hubert’s frustration grew.
Tavis actually did find one of the men just before the man clamped down immensely powerful shields. His name was Dafydd Leslie, a nephew of the same Jowerth Leslie, who had been a council lord under Imre and Cinhil until his death a few years before. He was also a friend of a number of high-ranking Deryni, among them Davin and Ansel MacRorie.
But Dafydd was not the one who had cut off Tavis’s hand, or even one of those who had held him for the butcher. Nor could Tavis pull forth any more information, for Dafydd panicked at having his shields assaulted so doggedly, went into convulsions, and died rather than betray his friends.
Hubert tried in vain to persuade Tavis to attempt a death-reading—a procedure he had heard of, and which he was sure a Healer of Tavis’s talent ought to be able to perform. But Tavis had no stomach for it, even had he known the procedure. What Hubert asked was from the arcane side of Deryni knowledge, and Tavis had always dealt primarily with the Healing arts. Besides that, Dafydd had known what he was doing, and had deliberately blurred out all portions of his consciousness before he died. Even a Deryni skilled in the working which Hubert mentioned could not have gained usable results.
This only spoke to Hubert of plots, and plots within plots, for he found it difficult to conceive that a Deryni nobleman, especially a petty noble like Dafydd Leslie, would take his own life in defense of another man’s crime. Dafydd himself had done nothing except witness other men’s offenses. For that, he might have gone free, had he been willing to name his companions. That he had not been willing only confirmed Hubert’s belief that Dafydd must have been involved in some kind of conspiracy.
Tavis could say little, once Hubert had made up his mind, other than to point out that nothing could be proved, now that Dafydd was dead; but his enthusiasm for Hubert’s prisoners waned even further, after that. In addition, the encounter with Dafydd had triggered Tavis’s own nightmares of the incident. In trying to suppress them, he kept returning to that terrible day and night, and Javan’s incredible role in helping him cope with what had happened. And that raised the further mystery of Javan’s shields, and what might have happened the night Cinhil died. As though by tacit agreement, the two of them had not discussed the matter further, Javan perhaps sensing that Tavis needed the time to heal, emotionally as well as physically, and Tavis choosing not to think about it.
After Dafydd’s death, Tavis mulled the situation for several days, wondering how best to broach the subject with his young lord, but it was Javan himself who finally took the first step.
It had rained that afternoon, curtailing their plans for a quiet ride to the hills across the river, so they had repaired to Javan’s chamber, where the Healer had thought to show the prince a copy he had secured of the current royal budget—an item which they had discussed several times with great interest, and which Tavis knew his young master was keen to see.
Javan glanced dutifully over the first few columns of tight, crabbed script, then pushed the scroll aside and glanced up at Tavis. In the common room outside, they could hear Javan’s brothers arguing over a game of cups and triangles, Father Alfred’s voice raised in reprimand. A rushlight burned on the table between them, intended to dispel the gloom of the rainy afternoon, but it only highlighted the boy’s angular cheekbones and made of his eyes two enormous pools of polished serpentine.
“Tavis, we need to talk,” he said in a low voice.
“Are we not doing that?” Tavis replied, raising one dark red eyebrow.
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it,” Javan whispered. “What happened the night my father died? I only refrained from asking before because I thought you needed time to heal. Well, now you’re healed. And I want to know what you did to me that night of your injury, too. And I want to know about my shields.”
Tavis sighed, a low, weary exhalation, and rubbed his hand across his eyes. “You ask much, my prince.”
“Did you not ask much of me, when you lay near to death in Valoret?”
“Yes.”
Another sigh. Then Tavis rose and motioned the boy to come with him, leading him to a seat in the window embrasure. There they settled, Tavis next to the rain-streaked grey mullion panes and Javan to his left. Tavis flexed his fingers and massaged his stump with the palm of his right hand.
“First, I suppose, there’s the matter of what happened to you that night of my injury,” he said quietly. “I took far greater liberties than I normally would have with a human, but you seemed willing, and there was that which I could tap into, though I didn’t stop to think about the reason at the time. You mentioned shields that night, and you were right. You had them, and you do have them, and you seem to be able to raise and lower them at will. I’ve never heard of someone not Deryni who could do that before.”
Javan frowned. “These shields—do you think they are somehow connected with the night my father died?” he asked, after a thoughtful pause.
“I don’t know. You could have had shields for a long time, and I just wasn’t aware. I remember that you were a little slow to open up to me when I first came to Court—but even then, you’d dealt with other Healers before. Once you came to trust me, there was never any resistance beyond what one might expect of a boy who occasionally wants to do what he thinks is best, rather than what his elders think he should.”
A quick grin crossed Javan’s face. “Was I a trial to you, Tavis?”
“Only occasionally, my prince. And that night of my injury, you were anything but a trial.” His eyes and his voice dropped. “If it hadn’t b
een for you, I don’t know what I would have done. Certainly, I would not have healed so quickly—in mind or in body.”
“What—did I do?” Javan asked.
“You gave your very soul into my keeping, if only for an hour,” Tavis said softly. “I asked you to let me draw on your very life-force, praying that I would be able to prevent myself from drawing out too much, and you gave yourself completely into my hands—or, rather, my hand. I might have killed you that night, Javan. You must have sensed that. But you never hesitated. You gave me the energy of Healing and of life.”
Javan’s eyes had grown round as Tavis spoke, and now he reached across and took the Healer’s hand.
“Have you not done the same for me, countless times?” the boy asked quietly. “I was awed and honored to be able to do it for you. And yet—”
“And yet?”
“And yet, I did not think humans could do such things for Deryni, Tavis. How is it that I can?”
“I don’t know,” Tavis whispered. “I really don’t know. And yet, I think this thing is not something which has always been. As close a time ago as just before your father’s death, I would swear there was only the ordinary rapport of patient and Healer between us.”
“Then, what happened to change things?” Javan asked. “What happened the night my father died? Rhys himself claimed to have done something to you. And we know that he gave me and my brothers a so-called physick that night. Perhaps he did something else to me, as well as to you. Do you think we can find out?”
“I don’t know,” Tavis replied thoughtfully. “God knows, I’ve searched my memories as best I can alone, but perhaps—” He glanced at Javan tentatively and gave his hand a squeeze.
“Will you help me, Javan? With your rapport, perhaps we can both go back to that night. The more I consider the timing, the more I begin to suspect that the key lies there.”
“What must I do?” the boy replied. “You know I want to help. Tell me what I must do.”
“All right.”
Quickly Tavis slued around on the cushion until he faced Javan, his left leg curled up on the seat in front of him. Javan did the same, tucking up his right leg. Gently Tavis took the boy’s left hand in his right, laid his other forearm along Javan’s right. He felt the boy’s right hand cradle his left elbow to steady the link, since he had no hand of his own to seal that bond. He took a deep breath and let it out, watching Javan follow his example.
“All right,” Tavis said softly. “I want you to relax and let yourself go, the way we did that night you helped me before. You’ll feel the same kind of slight pulling sensation, but this time, I want you to stay conscious. You may feel drowsy, but don’t go to sleep. Try to center in on that night when Rhys came into your room and gave you the wine. See yourself with your brothers now, back at Valoret.”
As Tavis concentrated on his breathing, he felt the boy slipping into a trance state as easily as if he had been doing it all his life. In half a dozen breaths, his eyes were closed and he was as deep as he had been the night of Tavis’s injury, relaxed and yet alert, even as Tavis had instructed him.
Gently, lightly, Tavis initiated mind contact, letting Javan experience it at first as only an intensification of the physical touch they shared. Deftly he guided his thoughts back to that night, feeling Javan moving back with him through time. He closed his eyes and let the scene take shape, integrating his awareness with Javan’s point of view as the boy, too, began to relive the night in question.
The three princes and their squires had gathered around Rhys after supper, where Rhys had produced a packet from his pouch and emptied it into the flask of sweet Fianna wine which one of the squires had fetched. As Tavis watched curiously from a seat in the window, cups were poured for princes and squires and emptied by all. Prayers had followed, and then sleepy climbings into beds.
Now they both rode Tavis’s memories as the Healer glided down to the table and picked up the empty flask, wondering what Rhys had given them.
“What was this?” Tavis asked, as Rhys rejoined him by the table.
“I told you, a physick against colds. The king ordered it. Taste it, if you like.”
Tavis had shaken his head and put down the empty flask, and had watched Rhys head toward the chamber door. With a yawn, Tavis had picked up his scroll and wandered over to the pile of furs beside the fireplace, had read for a little while, had drifted off to sl—no!
In his agitation at finally seeing the crack in the memory, Tavis stirred a little from his trance, some of his indignation spilling over undiluted to Javan, who gasped under the emotion of it.
Swiftly Tavis reschooled his thoughts to calm, reassured Javan, and went back to the beginning.
Back to the point where you fell asleep, he ordered Javan. Rhys returned to the common room, but the flask wasn’t empty!
It was not until he had said it that he realized he had spoken in his mind, and that Javan had responded.
He picked up the flask and sniffed the contents, and this time he could feel the shock which had first surfaced in his mind that night.
“You lied!” he had whispered.
“I did?”
“That was no physick against colds. You drugged them. You gave them enough to put them to sleep until tomorrow. What are you up to?”
He watched as Rhys returned his gaze, the picture of righteous amazement, and it was only in this remembering that he realized how deftly the older Healer had inserted himself between Tavis and the door.
“Up to? Why, I’m simply following His Grace’s instructions, seeing that the children get a good night’s rest.”
Feeling his suspicion anew, Tavis relived the instant he had touched a finger to the dregs in one of the cups, brought it to his nose.
“Rest in peace, more likely. You won’t mind if I check with His Grace, will—what’s this?” He could hardly believe what his senses were telling him. “Wolfbane and mer—Rhys, you didn’t!”
His shields went up, all in a rush. He felt the swift, tentative probe of Rhys’s mind, and shuttered his own all the more tightly, the while trying to decide what he was going to do.
Without warning, the elder Healer’s fist slammed into Tavis’s solar plexus! As Tavis collapsed, gasping for breath, Rhys seized the wine flagon and pressed it to his lips, forcing him to drink.
Pain!—of chest, laboring to breathe—of throat, forced to swallow once, again, again.… Indignation. And now, genuine fear, though physical function had started to return—for mental function had begun to haze as Rhys’s potion took effect.
“I’m sorry I had to hit you, Tavis,” Rhys had said. “But it was necessary for you to drink, since you had the ill-fortune to be here tonight, and I doubted you would do so of your own accord.”
Tavis’s mind whirled with growing disorientation, and it had been all he could do to get out the words.
“But why? My God, Rhys! You’ve given them m-m-merasha! And—anhalon. Merasha and anhalon, and they’re not even Deryni!”
“It has been done at His Grace’s command, and with his full knowledge,” Rhys had murmured. “Beyond that, I may tell you nothing more. And even if I might, you wouldn’t remember … would you?”
But Tavis did remember, now, and lived again the altered vision, the increasingly sloppy shields as the drugs invaded his controls and opened them to Rhys’s probe.
Now, as he forced himself down, taking Javan with him, he knew the places where Rhys had touched him; knew how to restore what Rhys had changed.
But there was little more to change, beyond that point, for the unconsciousness brought about by Rhys could not be reversed. There was no way to restore memory of what had not been witnessed. There was nothing to do but return to waking consciousness and try to determine what it all meant. Javan’s eyes went wide and amazed as he came out of his trance and stared at Tavis.
“Why would he do that?” Javan murmured. “For some reason, he drugged us all that night, and then he made you forget about
it.” He paused for a moment, then stared at Tavis in horrible suspicion. “Tavis, you don’t suppose he knew that my father was to die?”
Tavis gazed back at the prince neutrally, not daring to follow that suggestion to its logical conclusion.
“How could he have known that, Javan?”
With a shudder, Javan turned partially away and drew his knees up under his chin, hugging them tight against his chest, not looking at Tavis. “No, that’s impossible. He’s a Healer. Healers don’t kill people.”
“Not by choice, anyway,” Tavis murmured. “And if Rhys knew ahead of time that Cinhil was to die, then there must have been a choice involved.” He slammed his fist into the cushion beside him in frustration. “It doesn’t make sense. He said he’d drugged you and your brothers at your father’s orders. If he were part of some ghastly plot to kill the king, why would he have wanted you and your brothers only to sleep through it? The drugs he gave you were potent, but certainly not deadly.”
Javan thought about that for several seconds, then glanced uneasily at Tavis again. “Tavis, could magic have been somehow involved?”
“Magic?” Tavis cocked his head at the boy quizzically. “What gave you that idea?”
“Well, he gave us Deryni drugs—which, I gather, aren’t supposed to work on humans.”
“A mixture, actually. Some of them were not specific. They would have worked on anyone.”
“Nonetheless. And then, there’s the matter of my shields. I must have gotten them that night. Is it possible that—well, that he and my father—did something to us that night?”
“Did something? Such as—what?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” the boy pouted, swinging his clubbed foot across to rest on the cushion on the opposite side of the window seat. “You’re the Deryni. You tell me. Maybe they were going to—I don’t know—put shields on all of us, and they didn’t want you to know.”
Camber the Heretic Page 32
