The Bastard Prince

  The question startled him, though he managed not to make any physical reaction. He closed his eyes briefly, bowing his head over his folded hands, then dared to glance at her sidelong, ready to Truth-Read.

  “What makes you say that?” he whispered. “If it were true, how could you know such a thing?”

  She raised her face to the altar, but her glance darted sideways as she folded her hands piously before her.

  “Now, that is a reaction I had not expected,” she murmured. “You seem surprised that I know of this, but not surprised that the thing was done.”

  As she glanced at him again, he felt the faint quest of a probe against his shields, and he stiffened them in automatic reflex, brief panic surging up then as he realized she could sense it.

  “Oh, my,” she whispered. “Forgive me, Sire, but I had no idea. Or rather, I had heard rumors—about the Haldanes, not you in particular—but I paid them little mind. Sire, I swear to you that I would never do you harm. Can you Truth-Read that oath?”

  He could only stare at her speechlessly, his mind whirling with the implications, still uncertain whether he dared trust her, even though he knew she spoke the truth.

  “You do have the power of the Haldanes, don’t you. Sire?” she whispered. “Dear God, this changes everything. I begin to have a little hope. Sire, though I share Miklos’ bloodline, I have little power and am little trained. My allegiance I gave to my husband and his people many years ago, and that will always remain. I have not much to offer, but what I have is yours to command. Read me, I beseech you. We have little time, and there is so much I would have you know.”

  Trembling, she bowed her head and folded her arms along the altar rail, the left arm underneath, and turned that palm upward, her open fingers inviting his contact but hidden from sight from the door behind them.

  “Read me, I beg you,” she urged, pressing a little closer. “I will make you no resistance. God willing, I may be able to assist you in ways neither of us dreamed.”

  Her words were truth. He could sense no danger in what she asked. Adopting the mirror image of her pose, he laid the fingers of his right hand atop hers and used the link of flesh to forge a link of mind, extending cautious probes against erratic shields that wavered and rolled back immediately at the pressure. She had neither the strength nor the control of the other Deryni with whom he had had contact—except, perhaps, Mika and Cathan—but such support as she could give was there, and his for the asking.

  Quickly he skimmed the bare details, as yet offering nothing of his own confidence. The question of Sudrey’s fate had been the spark that reignited the old feud between Murdoch and the Kheldour lords at Javan’s coronation festivities. Rhys Michael had been present, but paid less attention than he should have done, being young and never dreaming he would have to deal with the aftermath himself one day. Miklos himself had raised the question, claiming Sudrey of Rhorau as distant kin to the Torenthi Royal House, captured in the taking of Kheldour by Hrorik’s father, Duke Sighere, and given as hostage with her brother into the keeping of Ewan, Sighere’s eldest son.

  The brother, Kennet, had become a squire and then a knight in Ewan’s service, eventually dying with his lord at Murdoch’s hands; Sudrey had married Hrorik, the middle of Sighere’s sons, and set aside her powers and her links with Torenth out of love for him. When Hrorik finally had achieved his vengeance against Murdoch, for the murder of his brother Ewan, Sudrey had rejoiced with her lord and drunk the health of the king who had permitted justice to be done. And now, she was prepared to offer her loyalty and her powers, such as they were, to the brother of the man who had given justice to Eastmarch.

  A rattling of the door latch behind brought Rhys Michael partially to awareness, ready to dismantle the contact.

  “Nay, my lord, see for yourself,” Fulk was saying, as the door creaked open. “He’s only praying with the Lady Sudrey. She asked him to pay his respects at her husband’s grave. It would have been an insult not to agree. There’s no harm in it.”

  Rhys Michael all but stopped breathing, holding Sudrey passive in the link, straining to hear whether the would-be intruder would overrule Fulk, but then someone muttered a reply and the door closed again. Keeping the link suspended, Rhys Michael glanced back across the rear of the little chapel to confirm that no one had entered, then closed his fingers around Sudrey’s and gave her a fuller account of Dimitri’s capture and death, saving only such details of his own participation as might give clue to the identity of his other Deryni allies.

  “What plan do you suppose Miklos had in mind?” he murmured, again reverting to whispered speech, lest he tire her. “Obviously, Dimitri had orders to eliminate certain individuals—and the ones he got rid of helped me as well. But what was he to have done, once we reached Culliecairn, if he’d still been alive? Given what I’ve just told you, does anything of Miklos’ communications of the past week suggest anything? What do you advise?”

  When she had given him her plan, again urging a mental link to speed the process, he let it settle for a few seconds, then slowly disengaged, releasing her hand as he rubbed his hands across his face and then looked up at the carved saints adorning the screen behind the altar. The light from the Presence Lamp was gilding them all with a ruddy, red-gold glow, all too reminiscent of blood.

  “I grant that no one will question the motives you offer, but you put yourself at grave risk, if you do this for me,” he said. “It will reawaken memories forgotten these twenty years and more. It may turn your own people against you.”

  “If other than military action is required against Miklos, they must not know it is you who have the powers, my liege,” she whispered. “If they do gain some inkling, you must convince them it is a reflection of your sacred anointing as king. If I can divert even a portion of scrutiny, then it is worth being seen for what I am. And a widow can always retire to a convent and adopt a life of penance. Your Custodes would like that.”

  Rhys Michael snorted. “More likely, they’d think you’d contaminated the place. This morning, before we left Saint Cassian’s, the abbot exorcised everyone who’d had contact with Dimitri last night—even Albertus’ dead body. And they burned Dimitri’s body.”

  “Sad men, indeed, so to fear us,” she murmured. “But we shall try to ensure that they do not fear you for such reasons. Dimitri told you last night that he would die to protect you; well, I make you that same offer.”

  “I very much hope that it won’t be necessary for anyone else to die for me,” he said quietly, taking her hand again. “That’s aside from a few more of my great lords, who are long overdue to pay for their crimes. But I thank you for your loyalty, more than words can say. Other than Cathan, I have none about me in whom I can place unqualified trust.”

  He raised her hand to his lips, then kept it in his and tucked it under his arm as he rose and helped her to her feet.

  “We’d best go back now. That will have been Lord Rhun or one of my other keepers at the door.”

  “It’s true, then—what they say,” she murmured, looking into his eyes.

  “And what do they say?” he asked.

  “That the king is not wholly his own master, that the great lords rule Gwynedd.”

  “I intend to change that,” he replied. “There’s been nothing I could do, up until now; but they’ve finally made their big mistake, in letting me come here. I’m having my first taste of freedom in my entire life, and I don’t intend to give it up again.”

  “They may kill you,” she said, “especially if they find out what you are.”

  He inclined his head in agreement. “They may. But maybe they won’t. And if my own people don’t kill me, maybe Miklos will—or Marek. God knows they’ll try. At least I’ll have had a try at being a real king. And with support like yours, I might even come out of it alive and king.”

  She smiled and bent to kiss the back of his hand in homage, then turned her face toward the church door as they began walking in that direction.
r />   So disarming was Sudrey’s effusiveness over the king’s kindness in joining her to pray beside her husband’s grave that even Rhun could not take serious exception, at least in front of the lady. But after Manfred had briefed Rhys Michael on what had been discussed in his absence, Rhun drew him into an alcove of the castle hall to confront him. Manfred waited in the opening with his back to them, to ensure that they were not disturbed.

  “Sire, I must insist that there be no repeat of tonight’s little diversion,” Rhun said quietly, though his eyes were blazing with anger. “What can you have been thinking? She’s Deryni. I would think, after last night’s events, that you would be well aware of the danger of such a contact.”

  Rhys Michael put on a look of injured innocence. “My lord, the lady is recently widowed, and in my behalf. It seemed a small enough courtesy, to offer up a prayer at her husband’s grave.”

  “The sentiment is admirable, but the danger remains,” Rhun said. “What if she had tried to take you over?”

  “And why would she want to do that?”

  “She is kin to Miklos.”

  “Rhun, he killed her husband. I hardly think—”

  “I will tell you what to think!” Rhun muttered. “Do not presume to test your bonds, simply because you are temporarily free of the strictures at Court. Your heir is in our control, as are you. Must I elaborate on threats to keep you prudent?”

  Rhys Michael felt himself blanch and had to remind himself that he was not yet free. “I’m sorry, my lord,” he made himself whisper. “I didn’t mean to question. It’s just that the Lady Sudrey—”

  “I don’t object to your concern for the lady,” Rhun said. “What I do mind is that you went off on your own, without so much as a ‘by your leave.’”

  “I did have Fulk tell Cathan were I was going,” Rhys Michael objected. “It was only to the chapel to pray.”

  “You’re very fortunate that it didn’t turn out to be anything else,” Rhun said. “But it’s done now. I trust that you now understand your error.”

  Rhys Michael’s nod of meek contrition apparently satisfied Rhun at last, for he grunted acknowledgment and glanced out into the hall, where Fulk and Cathan were watching the royal knights bed down for the night alongside Eastmarch men. The castle had already been crowded when they arrived, but Lochalyn was prepared to offer what accommodation was possible—and it was preferable to the camp below.

  “Very well, then. You’d best go and get some sleep,” Rhun muttered. “We’ll want to be out at our field headquarters early.”

  To Rhys Michael’s astonishment, he was permitted to retire to the unexpected luxury of a room all to himself. Tucked into the thickness of the same wall that carried a straight stair behind the great hall, it was too small for more than a narrow bed, a washstand, and a chest at the foot of the bed, boasting neither fireplace nor garderobe, but it was the first true privacy he had been granted since leaving Rhemuth. Able to dismiss Fulk without suspicion, due to the size of the room, he let Cathan assist him out of his armor and took the opportunity to warn his brother-in-law about Rhun’s reaction and pass on what he had learned of Sudrey. Cathan was amazed.

  I remember now that there was talk about her being Deryni, years ago, but who would have thought she’d offer you her assistance? Cathan sent, as they piled the king’s armor across the trunk at the foot of the bed. I wish there were some way to let Joram and the others know.

  So do I, but there isn’t. But maybe we can do this ourselves. We’re just going to have to be alert.

  Able to offer no further comment, Cathan sighed and turned away to unroll a pallet across the door to the little room while Rhys Michael finished shedding his riding leathers and climbed into bed. After pulling off his own armor and leathers, Cathan laid his sword on the floor beside the pallet and stretched out, pulling his cloak over him for cover.

  “’Night, Rhysem,” he murmured.

  When the king did not reply, Cathan turned on his side with a contented sigh and gazed drowsily at the rushlight on the stand beside the bed, until the flame swam before his vision and he drifted into sleep.

  Around another rushlight, in a tent in the encampment below Lochalyn Castle, three Deryni huddled together for whispered counsel, having exchanged the detailed results of their night’s investigations by more arcane means.

  “I’d love to get my hands on Lior or one of the others who was actually present,” Ansel muttered. “It’s clear that Dimitri was responsible, but it seems to have gone a bit beyond what we had in mind, at least.”

  Tieg nodded. “I’d rather both kills had been clean, though. From what I’ve been able to gather of Paulin’s condition, it’s clear that he managed to survive mind-ripping—which is either a testimony to Paulin’s bullheaded stubbornness or an indicator that Dimitri wasn’t as good as we thought.”

  “Or that Dimitri got interrupted before he could finish the job,” Jesse replied. “My guess is that they found him out after he killed Albertus, they tried to take him, and Dimitri made a last-ditch attempt to take Paulin with him, knowing he wasn’t going to get out of it alive anyway.”

  “For Paulin’s sake, I wish he’d succeeded,” Tieg said. “God knows how long he’ll linger, with no hope of recovery—though I don’t suppose he’s aware what’s happening to him.”

  “Well, at least Custodes influence is going to be at an ebb for a while, with both Paulin and Albertus out of the picture,” Ansel observed. “More important right now is whether the king managed to come out of it without arousing suspicion. He didn’t look particularly uneasy as he rode in this evening. It will be very interesting to see how balances shift, now that Rhun is in command.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  With arrows and with bows shall men come thither.

  —Isaiah 7:24

  A royal messenger was sent to Culliecairn with the dawn, bearing a white flag of truce and the demand that Miklos should send back his proposal with a human envoy prepared to be tested with merasha before he would be admitted to the king’s presence. While the messenger was gone, the royal party and their Eastmarch allies moved down to the camp and established their joint headquarters in a command tent.

  Two hours later the messenger returned with a second rider at his side: a tough-looking man of middle years clad in riding leathers with Miklos’ badge on the shoulder, wearing a steel cap but no weapons of any kind. Archers covered his progress as soon as he and his escort came within bowshot, accompanying him into the heart of the Gwynedd camp and halting him some distance from where Rhun, Sighere, and Lior waited before the command tent with Stevanus and Gallard de Breffni.

  The messenger was hurried off into custody, against the chance he might have suffered tampering at the hands of his Deryni hosts in Culliecairn; the envoy was ordered to stand fast and make no sudden moves. Rhys Michael watched from the shaded anonymity of the command tent as Stevanus and Gallard went out to meet the man. Stevanus had a cased Deryni pricker in his hand, but he kept it shielded.

  “You are?” Gallard demanded.

  The man’s gaze flicked from him to Stevanus, noting the badge of a battle surgeon on Stevanus’ shoulder.

  “Hombard of Tarkent, special envoy of his Serene Highness, Prince Miklos of Torenth,” he said. “And this is the surgeon charged to ensure that I am not Deryni?”

  “Please remove your glove and give me your hand,” Stevanus replied, unlimbering the Deryni pricker.

  Hombard looked a little startled, but he complied, not resisting as Gallard seized the hand and held it steady so that Stevanus could jab the twin needles into the back of the wrist. A muscle ticked in one cheek, and he closed his eyes briefly, but he made no sound, only rubbing at the tiny punctures when Gallard released him.

  “I had expected a cup,” he said almost reproachfully, removing his other glove as well and tucking both into the front of his belt. “That must be one of the Deryni prickers we hear of occasionally.”

  “Do you not use them in Toren
th?” Stevanus replied, closing the instrument but not putting it away, watching the man’s eyes.

  Hombard smiled without humor. “We know who our Deryni are, Master Surgeon, so merasha is little used. But I am quite human. May I be taken to the Haldane now, before I become too drowsy to convey my message?”

  “When we are satisfied, you may be taken to the king,” Gallard said coldly. “Even a human messenger should be careful to observe the courtesies due one prince to another.”

  The man shrugged and yawned.

  “Then, may I be taken before your lord?” he amended.

  Stevanus noted the dilated pupils and nodded to Gallard.

  “Bring him.”

  Briskly the Custodes knight set a gauntleted hand under Hombard’s arm and followed back toward Rhun and Lior, steadying his charge when he stumbled once or twice. Hombard yawned again as Stevanus brought him before Rhun, not objecting as Lior moved in to grasp his wrist, monitoring his pulse as he inspected the wide-dilated eyes.

  “Your name, sir?” Rhun asked, while Lior made his own assessment.

  “Hombard of Tarkent, special envoy of his Serene Highness, Prince Miklos of Torenth.”

  At Lior’s nod, Rhun jutted his chin in the direction of the command tent.

  “Come with me,” he said, leaving Hombard to follow as he went inside, hands clasped behind his back.

  Inside, they had made the command tent as imposing as possible. Rhys Michael had taken a seat in a camp chair with his shield hung behind it, the Haldane sword across his knees, and his commanders and aides ranged to either side of him, with Kheldish carpets underfoot. Like the rest of them, he wore full war harness, save for helmet and gauntlets and the Haldane lion bold on his scarlet surcoat. Manfred stood at his right hand, with Cathan and Fulk behind the chair. Sighere and Graham represented the Eastmarch alliance on his left. Gallard and Stevanus remained by the entrance with Lior, Gallard pulling the flap closed behind them when all had entered.