The Bastard Prince

  —Ecclesiasticus 8:7

  Dimitri had yielded nothing to his interrogators, despite a diverse range of tortures applied to shrinking flesh over the space of several hours. Efficient and apparently unaffected by the pain he caused, the inventive Gallard de Breffni had presented nun with varied inducements calculated to push him to the very brink of what he thought he could bear and then beyond—though never to the point that he might escape into unconsciousness. Diverse stimulants kept him alert, periodically reviving sensations pushed to overload and countering the sedative effect of the merasha, but these did nothing to ease the disruption of his mind and powers.

  Nor could Dimitri choose either to surrender the information they demanded or to end his agony, for he had given that choice into another’s hands when first he offered himself as Miklos’ agent. Though the decision of when to activate a death-trigger usually was reserved to the subject, the protection of extremely sensitive information sometimes required that absolute levels be set, over which the subject no longer retained control. With Dimitri’s own concurrence, Miklos had set the triggerpoint against an almost unimaginably high pain threshold; for the longer Dimitri could keep from breaking, against the worse coercion, the greater the chance his interrogators would doubt their findings, even if bits of the truth should manage to slip through.

  But now new pain probed into the very depths of Dimitri’s awareness, totally apart from what Gallard de Breffni was doing to his body. Vaguely he recognized the touch; weakly he strained to reach toward it—or at least toward the triggerpoint, to give him blessed release. As the probe drove ever deeper, either the pain or his yearning finally tripped the long-sought trigger. An instant of relief immediately gave way to a rainbow brightness erupting in his mind, obliterating all else, hurtling him toward oblivion at last.

  Dimitri’s bloodied torso suddenly arched in spasm, his breath catching in his throat and his whole body going rigid.

  “What’s happening?” Rhun demanded, as Stevanus laid an ear against the bloody, straining chest and Magan tried to get a look at the prisoner’s pupils. The others were throwing themselves across arms and legs to restrain the convulsion. Rhys Michael had retreated as far as the corridor some time before, unable to bear the Deryni’s screams and the stench of blood and urine and burnt flesh, but now he anxiously pressed back into the doorway with Cathan and Fulk. The abbot and his two attendants were watching with undisguised horror.

  “We may have hit a death-trigger,” Magan murmured, hunting in vain for a carotid pulse. “They can make themselves die, you know.”

  “Give him more merasha!” Lior ordered, fumbling to open his Deryni pricker. “If he’s doing this himself, it may break his concentration.”

  “I don’t want him killed yet!” Rhun barked.

  “It won’t kill him. He hasn’t had that much. We’re nowhere near a lethal dose.”

  “We’re going to lose him if we don’t do something,” Magan said, snatching the Deryni pricker from Lior’s hands and plunging it into Dimitri’s neck.

  Whether or not this new outrage was the cause, the fragile balance shifted enough in that instant to let Dimitri’s death-trigger snap closed at last. His back arched once more, then relaxed utterly, his limbs going limp as the dark eyes rolled upward until all but the whites disappeared. The final breath sighed gently from between slack lips.

  “He’s dead,” Stevanus whispered, hollow-eyed and grey as he lifted bloody hands from Dimitri’s chest to stare at them in the torchlight.

  Another was passing into death in a darkened tower room in Culliecairn. In the same instant that the death-trigger released Dimitri, Marek tumbled out of the disintegrating link with a gasp, hands clapped to his temples, and Miklos of Torenth lost the pulse in the throat of the man under his hand.

  Unperturbed, Miklos shifted a portion of his focus to deal with the suddenly dwindling flow of backup energy, the while riding out the psychic backlash generated by Dimitri’s death-trigger. That the backup was dying was regrettable but not unexpected, for no human could have survived the drain Miklos demanded, once he had determined to seek out the source of the alien threads. While a part of him sealed off the last of the aborted connection, Miklos relentlessly stripped out the final increments of energy the dying man could give, using it like oil to still the last reverberations of psychic storm. He only wished the effort had borne better fruit. Sending men to their deaths was a part of command, but he disliked sacrificing them for so little return.

  Meanwhile, the infusion of energy was having the desired effect. With heart rate already slowing to more normal levels, Miklos laid an arm across his eyes and made himself run through the usual set of checklists employed by Deryni after an arduous working. Remaining in another’s mind at the time a death-trigger tripped was never pleasant and often profoundly unsettling—far different from easing a soul’s passing when death came more gently.

  He felt groggy and a little light-headed as he opened his eyes, but at least he knew that a few hours’ sleep would finish restoring him. Drawing a deep breath, he shifted his arm to glance aside at where Marek sat, head bowed in his hands and breathing a little shakily.

  “Are you all right?”

  Marek raised his head and took a deep breath before he turned his face to Miklos.

  “I will be. What the devil did they do to Dimitri?”

  “Physically? The sorts of things one might expect. He knew the risks.”

  “That isn’t what I meant.”

  “I know. And I have no answer for you.”

  Sitting up, Miklos swung his feet to the floor next to Marek, pausing with hands set to the edges of the bed on either side before he pushed himself to his feet and staggered to the table and two chairs set under the window. Wood screeched against stone as he pulled out one of the chairs, and he had to catch his balance against its back before passing a hand over a rack of candles to produce light.

  He sat down heavily, pulling a tray nearer to pour himself a cup of wine. He managed not to spill any, but he had to use both hands to lift the cup and drain it. While he drank, Marek came to join him, pouring a cup for himself, then refilling the other’s.

  “Who do you think got to him?” Marek asked. “Was it the Haldane?”

  Miklos shook his head, then took another quaff of his wine. “I cannot say. He should not be capable of such a thing, but if not he, then who? Camber’s kin again? Dimitri had seen no evidence of Deryni infiltration at the Court in recent years, but remember that he has never been allowed direct contact with the Haldane himself.”

  “Who else might have done it, then?” Marek asked.

  Shrugging, Miklos set his cup aside. “We know that some of those Deryni who had aided King Cinhil were still in evidence when Javan came to the throne, even though they dared not show their faces in Rhemuth. Paulin and Albertus even had their suspicions about Javan.” He raised an eyebrow and shook his head almost regretfully. “I shall almost miss them, I think. They have done us many favors, over the years—they and their Custodes Fidei.”

  Marek suppressed a shiver, then took a deep draught of his wine. “I mistrust religious fanatics, no matter what the religion. I’m just as glad they’re gone.”

  Miklos’ pale gaze flicked away momentarily, even as memory shied from the echo of Paulin’s anguish he had read from Dimitri. Paulin, at least, was not gone; indeed, he might linger in a living death for many days or weeks or even months. He would know nothing more of pain, but that was small recompense for the unspeakable agony of having his mind ripped while still conscious. After such an experience, what mortal flesh could possibly ever register mere pain again?

  “You don’t look particularly pleased,” Marek noted, breaking in on Miklos’ distraction. “They stood in our way.”

  “So they did,” Miklos said, recovering himself. “Still, they have served our purposes, though they knew it not. Not only did they rid us of Javan Haldane, who would have made you a formidable adversary, but now I begin t
o wonder about his replacement. Perhaps they did us no favor at all.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Only that we should not underestimate this son of Haldane,” Miklos said quietly. “We have believed him to be a puppet in the hands of his great lords, these six years. We have assumed that he is not the man his brother Javan was shaping to be—or his father was.”

  “You think he has the Haldane power?”

  Miklos shrugged. “I know not. But someone exposed Dimitri. Someone guessed his dual loyalties. You saw the traces of their work. I find it a curious coincidence that Dimitri should be unmasked on the very eve of this Haldane’s first public venture in nearly six years.”

  When Marek did not speak, Miklos went on more tentatively.

  “Perhaps we should consider whether this may not be a timely warning, a sign that we should draw back somewhat from our original plan and rethink our strategy until we have learned more of this Haldane. It is just possible that he may have come into the same powers his father wielded. If so, and if he reveals them, his own great lords may kill him—nay, will kill him, if he has not supporters to protect him.”

  “That may take time.”

  “True enough. But time we have. What we do not have—what you do not have—is a sufficiently secure succession, if we were to take him on now, and you should fall. This is further reason for waiting, for biding our time.”

  “I’m tired of waiting! We can take him now; I know we can.”

  “Perhaps. But perhaps not. Consider the risks. My sister Charts has given you a son and heir in whom the blood of Festil is rejoined to Torenth—a magnificent birthright!—but the child is yet young.”

  “He is strong!” Marek blurted. “He will make a noble king one day.”

  “He is an infant,” Miklos said calmly. “Infants sometimes sicken and die, for no apparent reason. Do you truly wish to risk all just now, with but one puny princeling to carry on the line of Festil, if you should fall?”

  Anger flared in Marek’s dark eyes as he turned to look at his elder cousin, but then, after a taut pause, he shook his head.

  “I thought not,” Miklos said. “Nor do I.”

  “What is it you propose?” Marek asked, after another silence.

  “Simply this,” Miklos said. “We tread softly. Let us see how this Haldane is minded to respond to our challenge, besides bestirring himself to come to us. We must lure him to a face-to-face meeting. Perhaps the Lady Sudrey may be useful in this matter. I am stricken with remorse over the accidental killing of her husband and desire to make amends. I might even be induced to withdraw from Culliecairn without further loss of life, as a sign of my contrition.”

  “Pull out of Culliecairn?” Marek began indignantly.

  “We shall talk about pulling out of Culliecairn,” Miklos amended. “If opportunity presents, and he does not display the defenses we fear, we can still try for the kill, but I think it best we devise several contingency plans. Perhaps the young prince your son has taken cold, and the christening must be postponed. That justification will speak to the Haldane, since he, too, is father of a young son. If he can be induced to bring Sudrey to the meeting, additional possibilities become feasible. That situation has been maturing quite long enough.”

  Marek nodded, beginning to become caught up in his cousin’s reasoning.

  “But our ultimate aim must be to assess the Haldane’s strength,” Miklos went on. “Hence, we must be prepared to negotiate, to back down with at least some grace. Culliecairn was a convenient ruse to get the Haldane to show his face, but I think it is not worth the cost of a kingdom. There will be other days, other battles. If expediency requires, we have lost nothing by giving it back.”

  “I suppose not,” Marek said sullenly. “I want him, though, Miklos. I want him dead. I want my father’s throne back.”

  Miklos grinned and shook his blond head, looking suddenly years younger.

  “And you shall have it, cousin—all of it, I promise you—but all in good time. For now, let us merely expect to lay more groundwork—and be ready, if fate should offer some unanticipated opportunity.”

  Elsewhere, other Deryni were reacting to the implications of Dimitri’s passing. Assigned to monitor the death-trigger they had altered, Dom Queron Kinevan stirred groggily from trance and ran through a brief spell to settle his nerves, then turned his gaze to the crystal sphere suspended above the table in the Camberian Council chamber, using it as a focus to amplify his Call to Joram.

  There could be no mistaking what he had picked up. They had kept no actual link established with Dimitri since returning him to Rhemuth with his new compulsions, but a constant watch had been set to scan for any major working he might attempt. Niallan had caught the ripples from Udaut’s “accident,” and Joram himself had intercepted the lesser ripples that should have resulted in Albertus’ death. Thereafter, Dimitri apparently had been lying low—until a few hours ago.

  Alerted by the deviant burst of energy that had killed Albertus and then the second that had ripped Paulin’s mind, Queron had dipped briefly into Dimitri’s merasha disruption and then pulled back to a more bearable level to observe, well aware what the final outcome must be, with Dimitri having provoked sufficient mistrust to warrant dosing him with merasha.

  Only after several hours of physical torture did Dimitri finally escape, released by the death-trigger that Miklos had set and Jesse had adjusted. The reverberations of Dimitri’s suffering had been bad enough, especially for a Healer of Queron’s sensitivity; but worse by far had been the intimation, shortly before Dimitri died, that Miklos himself somehow had forced a link while the torture was underway, his alarmed query adding to Dimitri’s agony—until the death-trigger snapped shut. Queron’s one consolation, aside from knowing that Dimitri now was beyond pain, was that he did not think Miklos had been able to identify the traces left behind, to know who had tampered with Dimitri since Miklos had set his initial imperatives.

  “What’s happened?” Joram’s voice asked.

  Bestirring himself, Queron turned around in his chair to glance back at the great, ceiling-high bronze doors that Joram was closing. By the light of the single candle burning in the center of the table, Joram looked almost spectral. Obviously rousted from sleep, he had paused only to draw on a mantle over his white nightshirt. His feet were bare; the silver-gilt hair was tousled, sticking up in back where he had slept on it oddly, and the eyes were darkly hollowed.

  “You got here quickly,” Queron observed.

  “You did indicate that it was urgent.”

  Queron nodded. “Dimitri’s dead. So is Albertus, and Paulin’s mind-ripped. And Miklos forced a link through, just at the end. That’s probably what snapped the death-trigger.”

  “Is the king safe?”

  “He was when the link was severed. Dimitri did everything he could to protect him.”

  “You’d better give me all the details you have,” Joram said, pulling one of the heavy chairs closer to Queron’s and sitting.

  Not waiting for further invitation, the Healer reached out to lay his hand on the one upturned on Joram’s nearer chair arm, closing his eyes then and slipping into rapport with the ease of long practice. The requested information was conveyed within seconds, in a powerful and steady flow of psychic impression. As Queron dismantled the contact, Joram sighed and leaned back in his chair.

  “I never thought I’d say this, but I find myself feeling sorry for Paulin,” he said.

  Queron turned his face toward the hanging crystal. “It isn’t one of the more pleasant ways to go,” he agreed.

  “I suppose that’s what’s bothering me,” Joram replied. “He isn’t really gone.”

  “Isn’t he?” Queron said. “When a mind has been ripped the way Paulin’s was, what’s left? The body could keep on going for quite a while—but is the soul still there?”

  “Are you equating soul with mind?” Joram said with a faint smile.

  Queron shrugged, returning the s
mile. “It’s a question I’ve long considered—and never answered.” He sighed. “I wonder why Dimitri did it.”

  “What, attack Paulin? Paulin was on his hit list, just like Albertus.”

  “Yes, but why rip his mind? He could have stopped his heart, the way he did with Albertus. Mind-ripping is hardly subtle. He must have realized that such an act would only reinforce anti-Deryni feeling—regardless of who ends up on the throne.”

  Joram raised an eyebrow. “I doubt that ever crossed his mind. When every other power has been taken away from you, or is about to be, I suppose it makes a kind of sense to lash out with as much destruction as you can.”

  “Then, why just Paulin? Why not Rhun and Manfred, Stevanus? Why not the whole roomful?”

  “The king, for one thing,” Joram replied. “He was forbidden to harm Rhys Michael or Cathan. The more practical reason probably is that he couldn’t be sure of having enough power long enough to wreak destruction on a larger scale. Better to accomplish one definite kill than to attempt several and accomplish none of them.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” Queron sighed and rubbed wearily at his eyes. “So, shall I contact Ansel and let him know what’s happened, or do you want to do it?”

  “I’ll do it,” Joram replied. “You’ve been through enough tonight. Send Rickart to relieve me, and then go to bed.”

  Even an hour later, the king had not yet been given leave to seek out his bed. As soon as Dimitri’s body had been taken away, all the principals had been obliged to adjourn to the abbot’s lodgings, there to endure the inevitable debriefing that the abbot required. Fortunately, any ambiguity in Rhys Michael’s statements before the attack on Paulin seemed to have been lost in the drama of the attack itself, so no question of the king’s willing involvement ever arose.

  “I’ve never heard anyone scream like that,” Stevanus murmured, still badly shaken as they huddled around the abbot’s table and a servant poured wine.

  Manfred shuddered, his hand again closing around the crucifix at his throat. “You would have thought demons were rending his soul,” he whispered. “God help him.”