King Javan’s Year (29 page)

“Perhaps an hour, Sire,” the young knight replied. “Your presence is expected at supper this evening, and you'll wish to dress for it.”

“Yes, of course. Still, I want to see that library. Would that be convenient for you, Master William? Late this afternoon, about the time of Vespers?”

“It will be my honor, Sire,” the little man murmured as he bowed again, clearly thrilled.

Javan's spirits were much restored as he and Charlan continued on down the stair, Guiscard following shortly behind. He hoped that so prompt a presentation of the Master of Works meant that Guiscard had secured approval of the Portal site the night before, which meant—

Actually, Javan found he preferred not to think about what that meant, because the whole notion of being part of setting up the Portal was more than a little intimidating. He lingered at the entrance to the gardens until Guiscard caught up with them, searching the older man's face.

“The site's approved?” he asked.

“Aye. Two nights from now. What about—”

He jerked his head slightly in the direction of Charlan, who had wandered a few yards away and was bending down to inspect a particularly fine rose. Inclining his head slightly, Javan murmured, “He asked not to remember, but he's in.”

Guiscard nodded. “Brave lad.” He looked out at the garden. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Actually, I'd come down here to get away from everybody for a few minutes, before we have to go off to the cathedral and face down ecclesiastical dragons. Do you mind waiting with Charlan?”

“Not at all, Sire.”

As Guiscard bowed his acquiescence, sitting then in one of the arched openings of the cloister colonnade, Javan moved on into the garden, inhaling the perfume of the roses and heading toward the fountain that marked the crossing of two gravelled paths. It was a more formal fountain than the one at
Arx Fidei
, with water spilling down from a stone jar held over the shoulder of a kneeling statue of a woman, slightly larger than life size. She was kneeling on a plinth in the center of the fountain, her averted face shaded by the folds of her veil. Javan liked to imagine that she was beautiful.

In fact, she had no face at all. He and Rhys Michael had climbed up to look, one sunny summer afternoon a lifetime ago, only to find the face sheared off—whether from exposure to the elements or a more deliberate destruction, no one knew. Javan had questioned the gardeners about her, but all they could say was that the statue was very old; no one remembered how ancient.

Smiling at the memory, Javan waggled the fingers of one hand in the cool water—there were no fish—then set aside his cap and wet both hands to wipe across his face and into the open neck of his tunic. The crunching of footsteps on gravel behind him warned that this brief respite was about to be interrupted, but he spared another sluicing of cool water over his hair and down the back of his neck before turning to see two figures in
Custodes
black approaching.

Squinting against the sun—and resenting the intrusion, especially by
Custodes
—Javan scooped up his cap and put it back on. The wide crimson sash and the crimson-lined mantle flaring behind the first of the intruders identified him as Paulin—which explained why Charlan and Guiscard were following meekly behind and doing nothing to stop them—but the other wore the monastic dress of an ordinary
Custodes
priest, hands tucked into the flowing black sleeves. The man's head was bowed in the shadows of the hood pulled up from a stiffened black scapular like the one Javan had left beside another fountain at
Arx Fidei
. They were almost up to him before Javan realized the priest was Father Faelan.

“I have brought the king his new confessor, as requested,” Paulin said without preamble, though he favored Javan with a slight bow, hands clasped behind him. “Make your duty to his Highness, Father Faelan.”

Not looking up, the priest dropped heavily to both knees on the sharp gravel. Javan almost winced as he offered the priest his hand. What he could see of Faelan's face looked pale and drawn. “You are most welcome to my household, Father.”

“I am your servant, your Highness,” Faelan whispered.

His hand was trembling as he took Javan's briefly to brush it with dry lips. In that instant of contact, Javan sensed fear underlying an apprehension almost approaching dread. He covered his own surprise and would have helped Faelan to his feet, but the priest pulled away and lurched back to his feet on his own before Javan could do anything about it, eyes still downcast.

“I am certain that Father Faelan will prove a most satisfactory spiritual director,” Paulin was saying. “Naturally, he remains under the jurisdiction of the Abbot of
Arx Fidei
, and will be required to make retreat among his old community for three days each month, but this should prove no great inconvenience for your Highness.”

Faelan had thrust his hands back into his sleeves, but Javan could see that the man was still trembling. Something was very wrong. Javan wondered what could have happened to make the priest so afraid. He dared not address the question in front of Paulin, but he was going to find out before he left this garden.

“I thank you for bringing me my new chaplain, Vicar General,” he said. His tone was neutral, but brooked no interruption. “I believe that Father Faelan and I will walk in the garden for a few minutes and renew our acquaintance. I'm aware that I have a rehearsal very shortly. Sir Charlan will escort you back to the great hall, where we'll join you momentarily. Guiscard, wait here, please.”

Without waiting to see whether Paulin was going to take exception, Javan took the young priest's elbow and led him around the fountain and on along the main path that led farther into the heart of the garden. After a few seconds, retreating footsteps on the gravel behind told of Paulin and Charlan departing. Javan glanced at Faelan, but the priest was walking beside him with eyes still averted, gaze fixed on the gravel at his sandaled feet.

“I'm glad you're here,” Javan said quietly after a few more steps, still wondering why the priest was so afraid. “It's good to have another friend close by.”

“You are a dangerous friend to have, Sire,” Faelan whispered. His voice almost broke in a sob.

Startled, Javan darted another look at the priest, then drew him into the shade of a flowering tree—and also somewhat screened from observation from the windows of the great hall, where he was nearly certain Paulin would be watching.

“All right,” he said, hooking his thumbs in his belt and facing Faelan squarely. “Paulin's gone. No one can overhear us. You're in
my
household now, and I'll protect you. What's happened, to make you so afraid? You can't be afraid of
me
? Forget I'm the king. We were pupil and mentor, not so very long ago. We were
brothers.
”

Jaws clenched to try to stop their trembling, Faelan raised tear-filled eyes to gaze past Javan at something only he could see, arms clenched hard across his chest, hugging himself against an inner chill. Javan was appalled at the change that had come over the man he remembered as serene and unshakable.

After a deep breath, Faelan said, “They made me swear on holy relics to report back to them, on everything I see and hear. That's—why I have to go back to the abbey once a month.”

“I see,” Javan said.

But there was more to it than that. That Faelan should have been ordered to spy on him was almost a given. Surely the priest would have realized that. And telling Javan certainly removed any personal responsibility from Faelan. Why, then, was he so cowed?

“Faelan, the fact that you've been ordered to spy on me is no betrayal on your part,” he said softly. “I expected it. It isn't your fault. But I didn't expect that you'd be afraid of me. Did they threaten you?”

Choking back a sob, Faelan pushed back his hood and ran shaking hands through tonsured brown hair. Then he pressed his clasped hands to his lips, searching for words.

“You've—lived at the abbey, Sire,” he said haltingly. “You know about some of the less gentle disciplines. I think I—experienced them all, in the week or so since you asked for me.”

“Faelan, I'm sorry!” Javan murmured, wide-eyed. “I didn't know.”

“Of course you didn't. How could you? Father Paulin wanted to know why you'd asked for
me
, what the basis of our friendship had been, everything we'd ever talked about. He didn't believe me when I told him I hadn't known you planned to leave when your brother died, that you intended to take up the crown, that you'd never discussed your vocation with me.” He lifted dark eyes to gaze at the trunk of the tree they were standing under.

“Father Paulin said I was rebellious and disobedient. To bring me 'round, he started with the fasting and the long vigils prostrate in the
disciplinarium
, the days and nights without sleep. There were daily trysts with the ‘little discipline'—enough to raise weals, but not to draw blood. That came three days ago.”

“Dear God, they didn't
bleed
you?” Javan whispered, aghast.

Faelan hung his head, his voice faltering. “I wasn't telling them what they wanted to hear. They'd about lost patience with me. They—took me into the infirmary in the middle of the night, into that little room that's set aside for minution.”

“But you'd submitted to minution as a novice,” Javan objected. “They can't require it a second time. That's against the Rule.”

“Then I suppose they suspended the Rule,” Faelan said a little sharply. “Four strapping monks I'd never seen before were standing by to hold me if I struggled, while another one opened my vein. It was the assistant inquisitor asking the questions by then—Father Lior—and he kept asking me, while the blood ran down my arm and gradually filled the bowl.”

A little sob caught in his throat as he went on. “They made me watch. I honestly thought they were going to let me die—and for
nothing
. It's one thing to die for
something
, but I hadn't anything to hide …” He paused to swallow, one hand easing up inside the opposite sleeve to gently finger what Javan guessed must be the physical legacy of that ordeal.

“Anyway, I passed out after they'd taken away the first bowl and I saw they meant to go on. When I came around, Father Paulin himself was sitting at my bedside, and the Grand Inquisitor of the whole Order was with him—Brother Serafin, he's called.
He
even dosed me with
merasha
. He told me what it was. Maybe he thought I was some new, insidious kind of Deryni, to be able to resist their questioning for so long. At least I got some sleep, after that.” He swallowed painfully.

“They—questioned me again the next afternoon, after the drug had worn off. The morning after that—yesterday, I suppose it was—Paulin told me to get cleaned up; that I was coming to Rhemuth to be your new chaplain.”

Javan was shaking his head, utterly appalled at the story Faelan had told him—and what the priest had suffered for his sake. At the same time, something in the back of Javan's mind suggested an omission—though he had detected nothing but truth in what Faelan
had
said.

What could it be? What would Faelan have neglected to mention, whether or not it was of his own choosing? Suddenly Javan was struck by the similarity between the instructions to Faelan and the old practice of setting the squires spying on the princes. At least the regents had been quite open about what they did.

Good God, could
that
be it? Was it conceivable that the
Custodes
now had a Deryni in their employ, as the regents had done, but in secret? Was that what Faelan had omitted to mention? It might explain the use of
merasha
.

“I'm very sorry about what you had to go through, Father,” he said. “If you'd died, it
would
have been for nothing. And it would have been my fault. I deliberately avoided discussing my plans with you, because I didn't want to put you at risk—though that doesn't seem to have been much help. I'm appalled that Paulin would resort to such measures, and against a member of his own Order. Who else did you say questioned you? Paulin and Father Lior and—?”

“Brother Serafin,” Faelan supplied.

“Ah, yes,” Javan murmured. “Brother Serafin. Anyone else?”

“No, Sire.”

“Just the three, then,” Javan replied, though he knew that the last answer had been false—and that raised the question of why.

Chilled to the bone despite the heat, he made himself put the thought aside, still feeling for Faelan, who was caught up in Paulin's intrigues, whatever they were, whether or not he wanted to be.

“Well, I'll keep that in mind,” he murmured. “I wish I could undo what's been done, but I can't. You don't have to stay here if you don't want to, though. Would you like me to send you back? I could tell Paulin you weren't suitable after all.”

With a tiny, stifled sob, Faelan shook his head. “If you did, they'd probably punish me for having displeased you—and then they'd put some other priest through what I've suffered. And I—don't even know that I can be much use to you. As a Mass priest, yes. But a confessor …”

Another chill raced down Javan's spine, worse than any so far. From far, far away, he could hear footsteps crunching along the path, from the direction of the fountain—probably Guiscard.

“Are you saying that they might require you to violate the seal of the confessional?” he asked. He had thought he was almost beyond shock by now.

Faelan glanced down at his clasped hands in shame and would have colored if he hadn't been so debilitated from his recent ordeal.

“It—was never mentioned specifically,” he whispered, “but the implication was there. I didn't dare ask. I—suppose it depends on whether they think you might confess something they could use against you.” He swallowed and looked down.