“Why not?”
“Because it’s dangerous to use one, these days. I know the location of several Portals, but I don’t know their status. They may not be working, or they may be set as traps. I’m afraid to try the few that still seem to be operational, for fear I can’t get back.”
“What do you mean, ‘traps’ and ‘can’t get back?’” Javan asked in amazement.
Tavis sighed. “Well, you can Transfer into them, but then you can’t leave, even to go back where you came from, unless someone at that end releases you. I’ve also heard stories of other things that can be done to Portals so that you—never come back anywhere. No one knows where those unlucky souls go.”
“Would they do that at Dhassa, or would they just have destroyed it?” Javan asked, after a thoughtful pause.
“At Dhassa? Why do you ask?”
“Just answer my question,” Javan said evasively. “Would they do that at Dhassa?”
“Well, no. Not that last, at any rate. No reputable Deryni would. It isn’t destroyed, either. I’m almost certain they’ll have set it as a trap, though. That’s probably where Rhys and the others went, when they escaped from the cathedral. Dhassa’s under siege now, you know.”
Javan was silent for several minutes then, but Tavis could not penetrate beyond the boy’s rigid shields to find out what he was thinking—not without forcing and revealing his intrusion. After a little while longer, Javan looked up. The grey Haldane eyes were quicksilver cool and compelling.
“Tavis, I want to go to Dhassa,” the prince murmured. “Will you take me?”
For just an instant, Tavis almost said yes. Then, with a blink and a shake of his head to loose the boy’s spell, he stared at Javan in amazement.
“How did you do that?”
“Do what?”
“What you just—never mind.” He took a deep breath and remarshalled his thoughts. “Why do you want to go to Dhassa? Haven’t I just told you how dangerous it is? Do you even understand what you’re asking?”
“I understand exactly what I’m asking.”
“But—Javan, you’re far more than an ordinary human, God knows, but you’re not Deryni! For God’s sake, you’ve never even been through a normal Portal. If that is a Trap Portal at Dhassa, we could wait a long time, and it might be very unpleasant in the waiting.”
“It won’t be long,” Javan said confidently. “Under the circumstances they’ll have it manned at all times. Tell me about the unpleasant part.”
He could not counter the boy’s logic about the waiting. Grimly he racked his brain for a description that would mean something to Javan’s limited experience.
“Do you remember how you felt the night I made you sick? The mental part of it, not the physical illness, though it could also have physical manifestations.”
Javan shuddered a little. “Yes.”
“Well, it could be worse than that, depending upon what they’ve done. Besides, why do you want to go to Dhassa?”
Javan clasped his hands and glanced down at them. “First of all, I want to apologize to Archbishop Alister,” he said in a low voice. “I think we were wrong about him. I want him to know that we see now what he and Rhys and Joram and the others were trying to do all along. And I want to make certain that Rhys is all right. I’ve had an uneasy feeling about him, ever since you told me about seeing him fall.”
“I see.” Tavis rubbed the end of his stump in an unconscious gesture of uneasiness. “Javan, I understand your feelings, and I’d like to be reassured, too, but it is dangerous. We could get caught at any of a number of points right here in the castle, we don’t know what the Portal situation is like, and once we get there, if we get there—well, after what we did to Rhys, we may not be terribly welcome.”
“I know that, but it’s too late to undo it. That’s another reason I think it’s important that we go.”
“Suppose I go,” Tavis offered. “I probably exaggerated about the danger of the Trap aspect of the Portal. They wouldn’t dare make it too dangerous, for fear of catching one of their own people trying to make an escape. At worst, they’d keep me prisoner, which has to be better than being the regents’ prisoner. You shouldn’t have to—”
“No! I won’t send you where I wouldn’t go myself!” Javan interrupted. “Princes don’t do that. I want to go, Tavis. And if the archbishop wants to be angry with us because of Rhys, then I guess we’ll just have to bear his anger. But we have to let him know that we’re on his side now, and that we’d never have done what we did to Rhys if we’d only understood that we’re all fighting parts of the same battle, against a common enemy.” He sighed resignedly. “And if they don’t want me to know what happened to me the night my father died—well, I guess I’ll just have to wait until it’s time.”
“It may not be that long a wait,” Tavis said tentatively. “The two of us might be able to dig it out on our own, now that we’re both recovered. You have a right to know.”
Javan shook his head. “Maybe I don’t. In any case, that’s not the issue here. I want to go to Dhassa, Tavis. Now. Tonight. Will you take me there?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
It is the part of a brave combatant to be wounded, yet overcome.
—Polycarp 1:14
Half an hour later, having made provisions to cover their absence as best they could, Tavis and Javan eluded several guard patrols and then slipped along an intramural passageway and down a stair beneath the King’s Tower. Around the curve of another passageway, they came to what at first appeared to be an ordinary garde-robe—except that the floor was solid. Javan began trembling as Tavis paused before the opening, but he stepped in boldly when Tavis gestured for him to enter.
“Are you sure this is a Portal?” he whispered incredulously, as Tavis took the torch and urged him further into the dank closeness.
“Well, it’s hardly in a class with the one in the cathedral, but yes, it’s a Portal. I’m going to put the light out now. Don’t move.”
The end of the torch continued to glow for several seconds as Tavis straightened and slipped his right arm around Javan’s neck from behind, the hand resting lightly at the base of the throat. His left forearm he slid along the other shoulder so that his wrist touched the side of the boy’s neck. Javan tensed under his touch, for he knew that this was going to be different from the workings they usually did with Healing magic.
“Now, remember what I told you about the need to relax and let yourself go completely, so that I can carry you through,” Tavis whispered, his lips directly beside Javan’s left ear. “Take a few deep breaths and let them out slowly, as if we were going to work a Healing. Open and let things drift. Come on, you can do better than that.”
Javan tried, but he was too nervous to relax the way Tavis had taught him. He reached out and brushed the damp wall with his fingertips for reassurance as he took another deep breath and let it out, repeated the process—even sensed the tentative touch of Tavis’s mind reaching out to float against his shields. He could not seem to make himself let go.
“Tavis, I don’t think I can do it,” he whispered, beginning to shake his head. “Maybe you were right. You should go on without me. I’ll wait here. I promise, I won’t make a sound.”
“No, that won’t do,” Tavis breathed, the tone still infinitely patient. “Let’s try something else. Don’t fight it, just let it happen. I’m stronger than you, and you couldn’t get away even if you wanted to—which you really don’t.”
As he spoke, he shifted his hand upward on Javan’s neck and began to exert pressure on either side, gentle but firm, and increasing as Javan became aware of what he was doing and started to tense up even more.
“Relax!” Tavis commanded. “This is just for a moment, to get you through the Portal. You won’t lose consciousness for more than a few seconds. Believe me, it’s easier this way.”
Javan could breathe, but he could feel the blood pounding beneath Tavis’s fingers, sensed his vision beginning to blur,
even in the stark darkness of the alcove. Now he forced himself to exhale deeply and let his arms fall heavily to his side, even leaning farther into Tavis’s pressure to speed the process, though it was against all instinct. In only an instant, the darkness of the alcove was replaced by an even greater darkness which was but prelude to an odd, stomach-stirring sense of vertigo and falling. He felt Tavis’s arms supporting him as he passed out.
In Dhassa, Camber hastily threw on a dressing gown which Joram held for him and then followed him and Niallan down a series of corridors to the chapel. There he found Jebediah and a handful of Niallan’s Deryni elite guards surrounding a shimmer of purplish light which stood over the Portal in the side chapel. Inside the shimmer, Camber could just make out the forms of Tavis O’Neill and Prince Javan. Both Healer and prince looked tense and apprehensive, and more so when they saw Alister Cullen approaching, but there was no place they could go, trapped in the Portal as they were. For some reason, they were both wearing black tonight.
With a hand-signal, Camber bade Niallan release the Trap and dismiss the guards. Tavis gave an audible sigh of relief as the purplish light died around him, waiting until the guards had gone out and closed the door before making a short bow to Camber.
“Thank you, Your Grace. Before you chide me for bringing His Highness here, please let me explain that he insisted. We’ve been gathering information which we thought you should have, and this seemed to be the best way to get it to you. Where is Rhys?”
Camber stiffened at the name, feeling both Joram and Jebediah reverberate psychically with the shock, seeing Niallan’s inadvertent expression of sorrow—quickly masked, but not quickly enough. Dhassa’s bishop had grown closer to all of them in the past week, in many ways beginning to fill some of the void which Rhys’s absence left.
The reaction of a previous stranger was not lost on prince or Healer’s searching eyes. As Tavis took an involuntary step toward them in surprise, Javan caught his arm and followed.
“Something’s wrong. I knew it!” the boy whispered. “What happened?”
“Rhys—died,” Camber said simply, unable to think of any way to soften the news. “He died almost where you are standing, shortly after we left the cathedral.”
O God! Javan mouthed silently.
Tavis shook his head incredulously.
“But, he can’t be dead. He can’t be. He just can’t be!” the Healer repeated, over and over.
Javan whirled to face his faithful Healer, his eves like deep pits of shadow, all pupil and horror, his mouth working jerkily several times before he could choke out the words.
“Oh, God, we killed him, Tavis! We should never have drugged him! He couldn’t Heal himself because of us, and he died!”
Camber could not force down a surge of agreement, as the boy collapsed into hysterical weeping in Tavis’s arms, for it was undoubtedly true that the fact of Rhys’s diminished capabilities had not helped his condition. But it was also true that, given the nature of the head injury Rhys had received, he would not have been able to Heal himself even if he had started out at full capability. The fall had been no one’s fault in this room—an awful, senseless, tragic accident!
He told the two so, reiterating his belief that the only thing which might have saved Rhys would have been the immediate presence of another Healer; but then Tavis merely began berating himself for leaving when he did, returning to Javan when he might have gone to Rhys to Heal him.
Jebediah pointed out that Tavis had not known the extent of Rhys’s injury when he left, and that he had been obeying Rhys’s own instructions and Jebediah’s sword in going back to guard the prince. That finally seemed to begin satisfying Tavis’s guilt.
Camber said little during this exchange, for he could not prevent a part of his pure emotion from clinging to the futile belief that Rhys might have lived, if only Tavis had not drugged and then abandoned him; but he forced himself to submerge those last flickers of resentment. Rhys had made his peace with Tavis and his prince. Camber had read it in that fleeting instant when Rhys had knelt at his feet in the cathedral and given him all the night’s fear and reconciliation in one quick burst of intimate rapport—his last, as it turned out. In that, at least, Rhys’s death had not been in vain; for in addition to the warning he had brought, he had given them two new and impressive allies: Tavis O’Neill, a Healer of increasing potential, it seemed, who had mastered Rhys’s own Healing quirk in the last hours before the end; and a surprisingly talented son of Cinhil.
They spoke a little with Javan after that, finally making it clear that though Alroy was the king, it was Javan to whom they looked for aid and an eventual return to sanity, where relations between Deryni and humans were concerned. They knew he would not betray his brother, nor would they dream of asking him to, but he must be prepared to take his brother’s place when the time came. No, they would not harm the sickly Alroy, but neither was Alroy fit to rule, held as he was under the thumb of the regents, even if he had been physically fit.
When they were sure he understood, they knelt before him there in front of the altar and gave him their pledge of support—not full homage, as must be reserved for a king, but a commitment to him, personally, nonetheless. Javan acknowledged it solemnly, and said little thereafter, but the atmosphere seemed to have eased a little for the exchange. Their major remaining concern now lay with Tavis.
“I’d like to know whether you’ve thought any more about what you learned from Rhys,” Camber asked, without further circumambulation of the issue.
The Healer stiffened defensively. “What was that, Your Grace?”
“The new Healing function,” Camber returned, avoiding the other, more magical topic which he knew both Tavis and Javan really wanted to talk about. “He told me you’d learned how. If it’s true, you can be more help than you know.”
Tavis’s face, guarded already, became positively masklike.
“It’s true.” He hesitated, then went on. “I don’t know how that can help anything, though. Deryni aren’t our enemies—except some of them,” he concluded. He jogged his chin toward the empty wristband of his sleeve. “This wasn’t done by friends.”
“Also true,” Camber agreed. “However, suppose you show me what you can do. Then I’ll tell you why it’s useful.”
Tavis shrugged, relaxing a little. “All right.” He glanced at the other three, then back at Camber. “Any preference of subject?”
“How about Niallan?” Camber replied softly, a little reluctant to ask for a demonstration of this particular talent when they were not yet sure of Tavis, but knowing that he had to find out. He didn’t think that Tavis would use it as a weapon against them now—he’d only used it on Rhys to prevent an inadvertent betrayal—but if he would, best to find out now.
What Tavis did not know was that the Portal behind him was still set to prevent departure, and that the entire chapel was warded from without. And he could not overpower the Deryni guards outside and make them lower the wards to allow his escape. Only Niallan’s mental order could do that—which meant that Niallan had to be restored.
But all of this was but an instant’s thought. As the Healer glanced at the other bishop, Camber sensed that Tavis was trying to be open with him, that he did not want to have to play these sparring games, but was as wary as the rest of them. Niallan gave a lopsided smile and stepped out bravely from the other two, and Tavis glanced at Camber once again.
“No tricks?” he asked.
Camber shook his head. “I could ask the same of you, but there comes a point when we all have to trust one another. I’ve asked you to demonstrate on Niallan because he’s never experienced it before. Would you rather someone else?”
Tavis flexed his fingers nervously, considering, glanced at Javan for reassurance, then shook his head and moved within reach of Niallan.
“I’ve only done this once before,” he murmured, starting to raise both arms toward Niallan’s head, then dropping the left one, as though suddenly embarrass
ed by his missing hand. “My last subject was drugged, too. I’ll try not to hurt you.”
“Go ahead,” Niallan whispered, outwardly composed, but unable to suppress a flinch as Tavis’s hand touched his forehead.
Nothing outward happened, but suddenly Niallan gasped and drew back a step, eyelids fluttering in shock, reeling a little dizzily as Joram and Jebediah quickly caught him under the elbows and gave him support.
“Christ, he did it!” was all Niallan could murmur, absolutely astonished as Tavis backed off and waited, uneasy, and Camber glanced at the others.
Gone? he sent to Joram and Jebediah.
Joram nodded minutely. As clean as you could want.
“Good,” Camber said aloud. “Now, remove the block, please, Tavis.”
“Very well.”
Again Tavis moved in to touch Niallan’s forehead, his expression far calmer at the second approach. In the space of Camber’s blink, Niallan was restored. His wide, relieved grin was all the confirmation Camber needed.
That left only the question of whether Tavis could truly be trusted in matters they did not know about. They talked; and as Tavis related what he had observed of the regents and the bishops during the past week, he seemed sincere, but he also seemed anxious—far more anxious than he really had a right to be.
This alarmed Camber, for at first he feared that the nervousness might herald some hitherto unsuspected deception. As they continued to talk, he extended delicate and subtle probes to try to detect what it could be. Finally, he realized that something else underlay what was happening: Tavis had always been aloof, even before his injury, but now he seemed to be making clumsy attempts to open and reach out.
Amazed and relieved, Camber tried to maintain patience, to encourage, to let Tavis take it at his own speed, now that he suspected what the younger man was about. During an appropriate lull in the conversation, he had the other three Deryni take Javan aside, across the chapel, ostensibly for Jebediah to brief the prince on military theory but, in fact, to give Camber and Tavis some semblance of privacy. Tavis was still awkward and somewhat ill at ease, but he seemed grateful.
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