The Bastard Prince

  As Fulk came over to join him, Rhys Michael found himself staring at the knight, squinting against the dimness and trying to recall where he had seen the man before. The context had not been good; he was sure of that. Not that he held any Custodes knight in high regard.

  “What’s happened?” Lior demanded, as his companions came in and set down leather satchels on the table, the knight clearing the maps from it with a sweep of his arm.

  At Rhun’s direction, Manfred had stripped the bedclothes and thin mattress off the narrow bed and dragged it out from the wall. As he turned it upside down, Rhun said, “It appears the good Dimitri has turned on his masters. Or perhaps he’s been serving different masters all along. He killed Albertus, and he’s half killed Paulin. I want him broken. I want to know what he did to the king, and I want to know who he’s been working for.”

  Lior was already crouching beside Dimitri, peering under an eyelid, then feeling at the pulse in the captive’s neck. Kneeling on Dimitri’s other side, Stevanus had a Deryni pricker in his hands again, nervously twisting the cap as he awaited further instructions.

  “How much has he already had?” Lior asked.

  “Just a single dose, Father. Rhun managed to tap him behind the ear before it could take effect, but I think he’s going to need more when he comes around.”

  “Which is going to be soon,” Lior said, wiping his hands on his thighs and glancing around behind him. “Gallard, let’s get another of these beds in here. One is too narrow to be effective. Sir Fulk?” He summoned the aide with a beckoning gesture. “Come and help the surgeon strip him.”

  With Lior standing back to supervise, the men went about their preparations with an efficiency that spoke of ready acquaintance with what the inquisitor-general intended. Very shortly the abbot showed up with one of his subpriors and a Custodes captain-general and briefly drew Rhun aside for an update on the situation. Watching from his shadowed corner, Rhys Michael tried not to think about the tortures they were preparing, glad he could not get a clear look at the instruments and vials the younger priest was taking from one of the leather satchels, laying them out in neat rows on the table.

  Fulk and Stevanus had Dimitri stripped by the time the knight named Gallard dragged another wooden bedstead into the room, Manfred helping him upturn it beside the first and lash the inside legs together. Though Dimitri had served an enemy prince, Rhys Michael felt the gorge rise in his throat as he watched them shift the helpless Deryni onto this improvised bed of torture and begin tying him spread-eagled to the bedposts, stretching the flaccid limbs taut.

  In that instant, as he watched the knight named Gallard securing one of the bonds, he suddenly remembered where he had seen the man before. He had never learned the man’s name, and he had never again seen the man at Court in the six years since, but certain it was that Gallard de Breffni had been the cold-eyed Custodes knight at Hubert’s side when the great lords turned on him in council and seized control of the castle, the same day that others of their number had treacherously slain an anointed king. It was Gallard who had murdered the loyal Sir Tomais d’Edergoll before his very eyes, Gallard who had dared to lay traitorous hands on Rhys Michael’s own person when they marched him up to see Sir Sorle and the Healer Oriel slain, and to take Michaela into custody.

  And that had been but an extension of earlier treason, for the man whose name he only tonight had learned also had been his principal keeper while, months before those other murders, he lay abducted by the great lords’ agents. They had been Custodes, all of them, though Rhys Michael had been induced to think them Ansel’s men at the time—that it was Deryni who had turned against him and the great lords who had rescued him. And all the while, the great lords had been working toward that moment when Javan must be slain and Rhys Michael set in his place, but as a puppet king; and in his youthful arrogance and blindness, Rhys Michael had never even suspected until it was much, much too late.

  Long-banked anger smouldered into flame. In this one man was embodied much of the treachery and betrayal of a lifetime, finally given name and form. Gallard de Breffni’s life was forfeit in that instant, just as Albertus’ had been. Rhys Michael Haldane was an anointed king, entitled to dispense justice. He had the right and the means to take de Breffni’s life. Dimitri had shown him how. He could feel his newfound power starting to stir within him, tendrils of energy uncoiling down his arms as his hands clenched into fists and the spell began to take shape. Even from here, all he had to do was reach out and—

  “Sit down and have a front-row seat, Sire,” Rhun said in a low voice, suddenly beside Rhys Michael.

  Taken totally by surprise, Rhys Michael started back violently and went into a crouch, one hand going instinctively to the dagger at his belt, even as he recognized Rhun’s voice. He frantically pushed the power back down. In the concentration of his anger, he had not even noticed Rhun’s approach.

  Weak-kneed with relief, he made himself stay his hand and straighten up, trembling in after-reaction as he cast a shaken glance at Rhun. What had he been thinking? Tempting though it might be to slay de Breffni, to slay Rhun—to slay everyone in this room, for that matter—he knew he dared not.

  Not with merasha in so many hands. Not on the eve of a confrontation with a Deryni pretender. Not without a man to call his own, save Cathan, who was not even here.

  “Good reflexes,” Rhun commented, totally unaware how close he had come to death. “He must have given you a good scare. Here.” He pulled the nearest chair closer and shoved it against the wall. “You’re entitled. I suppose you’re as anxious as we are, to find out whether he got into your mind. But don’t worry; we’ll break him. His days of playing both sides have just come to an end.”

  He did not wait to see whether the king sat, for Dimitri was starting to come around. A moan escaped the Deryni’s lips as Manfred tightened down one of the wrist restraints, trailing off as the dark eyes opened and the bleary gaze slowly found focus. Pain was in that gaze, but also resignation. As Stevanus moved the standing rack of rushlights nearer his head, their sickly glow gave Dimitri’s dark visage an oddly jaundiced pallor. The torchlight from the walls cast a paler, flickering light over his naked form and on the faces of the hard-eyed men looking down at him. The abbot, a round little man with beady eyes and not a hair on his head, crossed himself and drew back into the corridor with his two attendants.

  “Dear, dear Dimitri,” Lior said softly. Flanked by the younger priest and Gallant de Breffni, he shook his head and made a soft tsking sound with his tongue as he folded his arms across his chest. “I had so hoped never to meet you this way.”

  Just visible in one of his hands was the cap end of a Deryni pricker—an unusual one, cased in ebony and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. His knuckles showed white upon it as he gazed down at his captive, betraying his tension. Though sick anticipation churned in Rhys Michael’s gut, he could not but watch. Every muscle taut, he made himself ease down on the edge of his chair as Fulk came to stand beside him.

  “You have broken faith, Dimitri,” Lior said more coldly. “In times past, you have seemed to serve, but now I worry that deception drove you from the start. In asking myself what seeds of treachery you might have sown in my mind, I have asked Father Magan to assist me tonight.” He fingered the Deryni pricker as he glanced at the younger priest beside him. “You have never met him, so you cannot have tainted him with your foul magic. But rest assured that he knows how to deal with your kind.”

  Dimitri flicked a glance of utter disdain at both men, then turned his face away, his wrists testing at his bonds.

  “No good, Deryni,” Lior said sharply. “You have killed one of your masters and probably a second. Before you are paid in kind, as you surely knew must be your fate, we require information regarding your other masters.” He smiled without a trace of mirth. “Naturally, you will not wish to give us this information. Just as naturally, we must insist.”

  Dimitri closed his eyes briefly, a faint grimace twitching at
the sensuous mouth as he swallowed with difficulty. Though he still seemed determined to put up a defiant front, Rhys Michael guessed that it was becoming more and more difficult, with the merasha in his blood. Sweat sheened on the lean torso, and muscles corded in his outstretched arms and legs flexed as he continued to test at his bonds.

  “A ridiculous game, isn’t it?” Lior said. “You are required by your masters to resist unto death, and I am required by mine to press you as hard as I can, your mind addled by my drugs and your body pushed by most exquisite pain to the very brink of death, but not beyond—until you have told me what I want to know.”

  His expression hardened as his words seemed to have no effect on his prisoner.

  “Very well. I know that we are not nearly to that point just yet. While Master Stevanus’ sting denied you access to your powers, you still have most of your faculties of reason and the will to resist. Regrettably, Lord Rhun’s method of rendering you senseless spared you from what I understand is a unique sensation, as the drug disrupted your control and stripped away access to your powers. Rest assured that such respite will not be granted again. I intend that you should experience the further erosion of your senses to the fullest.”

  So saying, Lior handed the Deryni pricker to Father Magan, who unscrewed the cap and carefully withdrew the twin needles embedded in its underside. A tawny drop of liquid quivered in the torchlight, suspended between the needles, as Magan raised an eyebrow and calmly bent closer to their captive’s lean torso.

  Expecting the usual quick jab of the needles, Rhys Michael stifled a gasp and nearly came to his feet as Magan instead touched the needles lightly to the shadowed hollow of Dimitri’s navel. In the same instant, as the act registered, Dimitri groaned and threw himself against his bonds in a frenzy, trying to roll away, rocking the wooden bedsteads to which he was bound and nearly breaking free.

  “Hold him!” Lior ordered, even as Manfred and Gallard were throwing their weight across the ends to keep him fast, and Rhun was pinning his shoulders back against the wooden slats.

  Rhys Michael forced himself to sink back into his chair, though his own heart must be pounding nearly as wildly as Dimitri’s was. He could see the hard muscles of the Deryni’s belly rippling in spasm as he made another halfhearted attempt to twist free, but clearly the drug so oddly administered was having its effect. He was panting as he ceased struggling, his body now running with sweat, and his eyes were glazing, the pupils wide and dilated as Rhun roughly turned the face toward the rushlights.

  “Is that a new way of administering merasha, Lior?” he asked, as he released the captive’s head and stepped back, looking at the inquisitor-general.

  “Absorption of the drug through the skin is slower but steady,” Lior said, drawing a deep breath and exhaling. “The umbilicus provides a handy receptacle, and the skin lining it is very thin. A somewhat limited method of delivery, but it has its uses. Father Magan discovered it. Obviously, it had not occurred to Dimitri.” He glanced at the faintly twitching captive, whose eyes had closed.

  “I know you’re still conscious, Deryni,” Lior said, in a slightly louder voice. “Nor need you bother to hope that your ordeal will be cut short by a miscalculation of the drug’s dose. We know precisely how much merasha a Deryni can tolerate before the dose becomes lethal, or even before sleep gives temporary respite.

  “But before that comes the pain. Just as Father Magan is conversant with the drugs we can use to help break you, so Sir Gallard is well versed in the various methods of causing pain. Do not look for your other masters to save you from either.”

  Dimitri’s other masters even then were debating the numerous possible reasons why their agent had not yet made contact. In the tower chamber at Culliecairn, Prince Miklos of Torenth was sitting on the edge of a narrow camp bed with his head in his hands. In a chair opposite sat Marek of Festil, wide-eyed and impatient-looking.

  “But we know they’re close,” Marek said. “We’ve had conventional dispatches since they left Rhemuth. Besides the death of Udaut, there’s been no hint that anything odd has happened—certainly nothing to indicate that Dimitri’s been found out. Believe me, if a Deryni spy had been discovered in the bosom of the Custodes Fidei, we would have heard.”

  “We should have heard from him,” Miklos said, raising his head. “I like it not. In more than six years of service, he has never been more than a few hours off, if a contact was prearranged. Given the uncertainties attendant upon forced march, I could understand a delay of a day or two. Privacy could be hard to come by. But the scouts predict arrival at Lochalyn tomorrow. That means they shall be here the day after. And we have not the foggiest notion where we stand, what other key men he has been able to eliminate or subvert, what he has found out about the Haldane—”

  “Then, let’s go ahead and force the contact,” Marek said. “If he’s that close, it won’t take that much more energy to initiate the contact, instead of just standing by to receive. It’s late enough now that he’s probably asleep. We’ll go in tandem, with a human backup. If everything’s all right, we can find out what we need to know. If he’s captured, or he’s turned, we can kill him. And of course, if he’s dead, we’ll know that, too.”

  Miklos, Prince of Torenth, rubbed his hands over his face, then nodded with a heavy sigh.

  “Very well.” He stood. “I shall go and fetch someone for backup. I don’t wish to use one of my regular sources; this may kill whomever we use, if the power drain is too heavy.”

  With that he went out of the room, closing the door softly behind him. Marek rose and paced the length of the room a few times, then went to the window and looked out over the valley below the castle.

  Beyond the valley lay the Coldoire Pass; and between the pass and the castle, the watchfires of Miklos’ Torenthi levies sparkled in the cool night air like jewels flung across a bolt of velvet. It was the gateway to Marek’s kingdom, stolen from his parents by the father of the king riding to meet him out there in two days’ time. It was close enough that he could almost smell it.

  He turned as the door opened behind him and Miklos returned, now accompanied by a short, stocky guard wearing Miklos’ livery.

  “Sit there,” Miklos said, pointing to the floor beside the narrow camp bed. “Lean your back against the bed.”

  The man obeyed the odd command without hesitation, obviously already controlled. Wearily Miklos went around to the other side of the bed and sat down, drawing a deep breath, then totally emptying his lungs before reclining and swinging his booted legs up onto the thin mattress.

  As he briefly laid an arm over his eyes, Marek came to join him, sitting in a chair on the opposite side of the bed from the guard and performing the same deep-breathing exercise that Miklos had done. After a moment Miklos raised his arm to tip the guard’s curly head back against the bed, his hand briefly cupping over the eyes. Then he shifted it down to let his wrist lie against the man’s shoulder, the V of his thumb and fingers lightly clasped around the man’s throat.

  “All right, he’s ready,” Miklos murmured, upturning his other arm along his side. “Whenever you are.”

  Marek had been disciplining his own trance already and linked in easily with the Torenthi prince, as he clasped his hand around the other’s wrist. Marek was powerful and very well trained, perhaps the match of his older cousin, but this was Miklos’ working, so he let himself take a subordinate role as Miklos wove the spell. In the background, he could feel the vibrant life-force of the guard pulsing in synch with the power Miklos was coiling to unleash, not even accessible to its owner but now set in potential and ready to be drawn upon.

  Powerful and focused, their call went forth, fine-focused only to the mind of the agent they sought, sweeping a far smaller area and lesser distance than Dimitri had spanned, a week before, when last he communicated. It took some time to locate him, because his trace, when they finally picked it up, was odd.

  Merasha! came Miklos’ stark pronouncement. Someone has found h
im out!

  Bracing himself for even the secondhand taste of merasha disruption, Miklos thrust the contact home, seeking no permission and needing none, for Dimitri’s shields were in tatters, no impediment at all. Stark on the very surface of his mind lay drug-addled snatches of the event that had precipitated his undoing: Lord Albertus killed, as ordered, but under circumstances that inadvertently had betrayed Dimitri as well … and the despicable Paulin mind-ripped even as Dimitri succumbed to his captors’ power.

  Dimitri was not unconscious; indeed, he was in a great deal of pain. But not yet near the breaking point; not yet near the trigger Miklos had set against just such a contingency.

  Yet something was wrong here—something about the trigger. To Miklos’ consternation, other minds had been deep in Dimitri’s. Alien traces showed like faintly wrong-colored threads against the subtle, complex pattern Miklos had laid down. He could not quite make out their source, but he could see glimpses of the work—and where at least a few of the threads seemed to lead.

  Trigger alterations, Miklos noted. Let us see if we can discover who has done this. Could it possibly have been the Haldane …?

  He drove his probe closer toward the source of the alteration, himself causing pain; drawing heavily on his backup now, ignoring his pain, starting to catch a glimpse, a glimmering—

  In that instant, more powerful and more recent compulsions slammed into force, tripping the death-trigger that Miklos himself had set. Though aware what it would cost to delay the effect, Miklos locked Marek into the link and drove all their considerable power and all the last reserves of their backup into one final, desperate attempt to force the trigger back and keep the channel open just a little longer, relentlessly seeking explanation, willing the linked mind to yield its information.

  Who? Tell me who!

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Rejoice not over thy greatest enemy being dead, but remember that we die all.