King Javan’s Year by Katherine Kurtz Page B

Michael had bought the pouches for the two knights—and for two more, both dead now: Piedur in a border skirmish a few years back and Corund in the ambush that had claimed the life of Ansel MacRorie’s brother Davin.
    The memory brought less pleasant images as well, for Tavis O’Neill had lost his hand that day. But it also had been the day when Javan first began to realize that he was not like other humans and that unexpected powers were awakening in him.
    He yanked himself back from that memory as Jason delved deep into his pouch and produced a coil of snow-white leather, perhaps three fingers wide.
    â€œI see that your Highness has remembered the pouch,” Jason said quietly, shaking out the white leather so that all could see that it was a knight’s belt, with a simple gold ring attached at one end. “I regret that this is not the same piece of leather that your Highness bought that day, but I remembered the longing that went with the purchase and telling Master Tavis—though you never knew it—that I doubted you would ever wear the white belt unless you became king.”
    The older knight’s callused fingers caressed the soft leather, and his dark eyes met Javan’s squarely. “I am here to tell you, Sire, that you have merited this belt even before this morning’s sorrow made you king, by your courage and by the honor you have shown in all your conduct over these difficult years since your beloved father died. I am also here to tell you that we are prepared—all of us present here, and on behalf of many who cannot be present just now—we are prepared to offer you the knightly accolade that goes with this token of that estate, to receive it here and now, for you are surely worthy of it.”
    Stunned, Javan could only blink at Jason for an interminable instant, hardly able to believe the honor this very senior and respected knight was doing him. Knighthood had been a childhood dream he had long ago put aside in the expediency of survival. He had not let himself think about the white belt for several years, believing it beyond any reasonable likelihood of attainment—and caught up in what he must do for his own survival. To have it now within reach, and offered by a knight of Jason’s standing—
    Almost trembling, Javan handed off the tunic and his sheaf of papers to Charlan, who was grinning widely. He allowed himself to look at the length of white leather still offered on Jason’s hands, but he made himself fold his own hands in his lap, so that he would not touch it.
    â€œSir Jason, I—am overwhelmed by the honor you do me. But I am as I am.” He could not keep from glancing at his clubfoot, exposed there for all to see, and he had to blink back tears as he let his eyes sweep the others as well.
    â€œPlease forgive me, gentlemen, but I—would not have you lessen your standards merely to prove a loyalty that need not be proven. I am more grateful than I can say, for your support and the danger you take upon yourselves by championing my cause, but you need not do this.”
    To his utter amazement, the rest of the knights merely smiled and went to one knee, all of them looking expectantly at Jason, who sighed and leaned forward conspiratorially, one forearm resting on his upraised knee. Rhys Michael had drawn back against the edge of the window embrasure, for he was not one of their company in this, but tears of joy glistered in his eyes as he made happy witness to it.
    â€œSire,” Jason said gravely, “I believe I continue to speak for the rest of my brother knights when I tell you that none of us intend to take another step out of this room or to lift another finger in your service until you agree to accept the accolade.”
    â€œYou will but make my task the more difficult, gentlemen,” Javan whispered. “To appear before the lords of state wearing this”—he gestured toward the belt—“would