King Javan’s Year by Katherine Kurtz

squire and dismissed the boy with a gesture.
    â€œWait outside, please, Quiric,” he murmured. “I’ll call you when I need you again.”
    When the boy had withdrawn, bowing nervously to Javan and to Rhys Michael, who opened the door far enough to let him pass, Oriel said, “Thank you for coming, your Highness.”
    Sighing, Javan came around to the other side of the bed, forcing his gaze to move across the still, almost-motionless form of his brother the king, nearly as white as the linen sheeting drawn up just past his waist. Alroy’s labored breath still stirred the narrow chest, but the closed eyes had dark smudges beneath them. Perspiration soaked the raven hair, which was slightly longer than Javan’s monastic barbering.
    Javan started to reach for the slack left hand lying atop the sheet beside Alroy’s body—it wore the Haldane Ring of Fire, despite Alroy’s desperate illness—then paused to lift his gaze to Oriel instead.
    â€œHow long?” he whispered, searching the Healer’s eyes.
    â€œHowever long he has, prolonging his suffering cannot be justified,” Oriel murmured, “for he cannot possibly recover. I have his pain controlled for now, and his sleep is one of Healer’s crafting, not the drugs he has been taking; but I cannot hold this for very long.”
    â€œAnd if you do nothing?” Javan said.
    Oriel bowed his head. “He wanted desperately to see you, my prince—and that he should be able to speak to you a final time without his mind clouded by the drugs that can give him ease. I have promised that I will make that possible—though it means that your final exchange with him will not be entirely private, for I cannot maintain my controls at a distance. I—will try to be as unobtrusive as possible.”
    Javan swallowed with difficulty. “I—see. And when we have spoken? When he has told me what he wishes me to know?”
    â€œThen I have promised that I will give him ease,” the Healer said, not looking at him. “It will not be a fatal dose, for I may not, by my Healer’s oaths; but I will give him peaceful sleep until he—until he quite literally drowns in the fluids that are filling his lungs.” He swallowed, as if feeling those fluids encroach upon his own lungs. “But he will not suffer anymore. It is the best ease I can offer him, once he has unburdened his soul to you.”
    Tears were filling Javan’s eyes, and he had to blink hard to regain control.
    â€œHas he unburdened his soul to a priest?” he asked quietly. “I saw that they’d brought the Blessed Sacrament outside. Has he received the Last Rites?”
    Oriel’s lips compressed beneath his faint smudge of moustache as he shook his head. “He said that there is no priest in Rhemuth from whom he will accept them. A few hours ago, while he slept, both archbishops came and anointed him anyway and gave him conditional absolution, but he has absolutely refused to receive Communion from them or any of their priests. Perhaps you can reason with him.”
    Javan ducked his head, remembering how often he had been obliged to accept Communion from Hubert, loathing the man but forcing himself to separate the man from the Sacrament he dispensed. That Alroy finally was taking a stand on this point spoke much of his moral courage, however belatedly it was being manifest. At least on that point, Javan thought he might be able to ease Alroy’s mind.
    But first he must discover his brother’s mind, on which there were far more pressing concerns than the outward token of a peace with the Maker Whom he very shortly would behold. Drawing deep breath, Javan dared to take Alroy’s limp hand in his, pressing its back tenderly to his lips before glancing across at Oriel.
    â€œWake him, please,” he said softly. “And I shall rely upon your holy vows as a Healer to ensure that what passes between