King Javan’s Year Read Online Free PDF Page A

several carp come to investigate his feet and to mouth gently at his toes. He gained a greater measure of tranquillity, but no clearer impression of what was amiss. After a while he looked up with a start, his attention recalled to the present by the sound of horses approaching the gate to the yard on the other side of the cloister wall, and a somehow familiar voice shouting “Porter!”
    Charlan? The thought came immediately to Javan, as he turned his head to listen more closely and the voice cried out again.
    â€œPorter? Open the gate, I say. Open in the name of the king! I bear a message for Prince Javan!”
    It was Charlan!
    Even as Javan jerked his feet out of the water and set to drying them hastily on the hem of his soutane, other voices were added to Charlan’s, along with the sounds of bolts being withdrawn and the clatter of many hooves on cobblestones as a large number of horses entered the yard. The glare of many torches lit the air above the cloister wall, and Javan estimated that there might be as many as a dozen men with his former squire. As the voices died down, Javan realized that someone must have been summoned to speak to Charlan.
    But what was Charlan doing here at this hour? It could not be to tell of Alroy’s death, for he had demanded admittance in the name of the king and asked to see Prince Javan.
    Of course, Alroy could be dead and Rhys Michael declared king—but surely not even Rhun or Murdoch would have been stupid enough to send Charlan to tell his former master that his crown was usurped.
    Which all suggested that Alroy was still alive but failing. As Javan slipped his good foot into his sandal and then set about the more time-consuming process of putting his special boot back on, he decided that could also account for what he had been feeling all day. And if Alroy was failing—
    Mince no words, Javan , he told himself. If Alroy is dying, you’re about to have to fight for your crown. You’d just better hope you’re ready …
    He was fastening up the last buckle on his boot when torches approached from the processional door that led into the cloister from the abbey church. Heart pounding in his throat, he scooped up his scapular and rose, automatically starting to don it before the abbot saw him out of uniform—for Father Halex surely would be the one to bring Charlan to him, the only one with authority to do so.
    But then he decided to take the gamble that this was the call he had been waiting for and that he had removed the hated symbol of servitude to the Custodes Fidei for the last time. As the torches approached, Father Halex clearly in the lead and Charlan’s towhead right beside him, Javan dropped the scapular back onto the grass and contented himself with doing up the throat of his soutane.
    Charlan strode out ahead of the abbot as he saw his former master, and Javan drew himself to attention as the young knight drew near and made him a respectful bow, left hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. The young knight wore a quilted jazerant over his riding leathers, token indication that this was not a social call, but that seemed to be the extent of his armor. Still, it was a measure of the impact he had made on arrival that Charlan retained his sword and dagger, even within these cloistered walls, though he had not been allowed to bring any of his men with him.
    â€œYour Highness, I bear important news from Rhemuth,” Charlan said carefully, obviously as aware as Javan that the abbot and his two attendant monks were taking in every word.
    â€œThe king?” Javan asked in a low voice, afraid for what he would hear.
    â€œThe king lives,” Charlan breathed, “but he commands your presence. The Prince Rhys Michael bade me come, and gave me this as token of his authority.”
    Without taking his eyes from Charlan’s dark ones, Javan opened a palm under the closed fist Charlan offered, glancing then at what lay