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gullible as I was.”
    Javan bowed his head, blinking back new tears. It was senseless to pretend that Alroy was not dying.
    â€œI—hope I’ll have better luck,” he murmured. “God, how I wish there were something I could do for you.”
    Alroy swallowed noisily, tears swimming in the shadowed eyes. “You’ve done it, just by being here,” he whispered. “I’m glad it was in time. Oriel has—has promised that I don’t have to suffer any more. But stay with me … please. Even if I seem to be far, far away before the end, somehow I’ll know you’re there. It isn’t that I’m afraid, though I do wish …”
    His voice trailed off, and Javan leaned closer to peer into the clouded grey eyes.
    â€œYou do wish what?” he breathed.
    â€œIt would have been a comfort to receive the Sacrament one last time,” he murmured, not looking at Javan. “But I won’t receive it from Hubert. That would be sacrilege.”
    The coughing bout that started this time was one that Oriel could not muffle, and he stirred from his Healer’s trancing to help Javan shift the king onto his side, where Alroy still coughed uncontrollably until Oriel sent him plummeting into unconsciousness.
    â€œIt will have to be the drugs soon,” Oriel murmured, when the coughing had abated and he could at last distract enough attention from his patient to look across at the anxious Javan. “I can bring him around once more, for just a few minutes, but anything beyond that would only prolong his suffering needlessly. If you have anything else you need to say to one another, you’d better make up your mind quickly.”
    Mind whirling furiously, Javan gave Oriel a nod. From somewhere—he had an impression of Evaine’s memory behind it—a compelling image had flashed in his mind. Suddenly bringing a parallel of that image into present reality became all important.
    â€œMaster Oriel, can you delay that last time for a few more minutes, in a good cause?” he asked.
    â€œAs long as it isn’t for too many more minutes, Sire,” the Healer replied. “What do you intend to do?”
    Javan’s thin smile was not pleasant. “Something that will not please the archbishop,” he said, motioning for Rhys Michael to join him. “Rhysem, come and stay with him, would you? And pay no mind to any shouting and arguing you may hear from the next room.”

C HAPTER F OUR
    Behold, I have set before thee an open door .
    â€”Revelations 3:8
    Beckoning a puzzled Rhys Michael to come and stand beside the royal sickbed, Javan buttoned up the neck of his tunic, then clapped a reassuring hand to his younger brother’s shoulder before himself heading toward the door. He drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders as he set his hands on the latch, then opened the door and stepped through, pulling it to, but not latched.
    More of Alroy’s lords of state had gathered in the anteroom since his arrival. Two of the knights who had accompanied him and Charlan from the yard had taken up stations just inside the door that opened to the corridor, one to each side, casual but alert. Charlan himself still stood easy vigilance with his back to the door jamb, arms folded across his chest, half blocking the doorway to any further entrance or egress. Beyond him, Javan could see Tomais with Bertrand and more of the other knights who had ridden with him, quietly congregated outside.
    There were not many seats in the anteroom, for it was not large, but those who were seated came to their feet as Javan appeared, the same question in every pair of eyes.
    â€œThe king yet lives, gentlemen,” he said quietly, “but the end is drawing near. Archbishop, may I see you, please?”
    At the direct address, a flushed and suspicious-looking Hubert drew himself erect and made his ponderous way forward, inclining his head as Javan stepped back into