The Bastard Prince
As he felt her chin come to rest on the top of his head, he let the link form fully and himself took control of the working, apologetically sending forth his own probe, deeper than he had in the chapel, to confirm what he had read before—that Sudrey had long ago turned her back on her Torenthi kin and offered him her unqualified loyalty and service.
Forgive me, he set in her mind, but Miklos wishes to parley, and has suggested that I bring you along to Truth-Read for me. I had to be absolutely certain you had no hidden agenda.
More gently then, and all in the space of a few heartbeats, he sent her the essence of what Miklos proposed and the arguments Rhun and the others had raised against it. Acknowledging, she pulled back a little, again massaging at the tight muscles in his neck and shoulders.
“Well done, Sire,” she breathed. “You can stretch now. You’re perfectly fine—and so far as I can tell, this Dimitri did naught but Truth-Read you.”
As Rhys Michael blinked and sighed, flexing his fingers and stretching his neck, flicking his gaze around the tent to reorient, Lior and Magan exchanged whispered counsel. Sighere and Graham looked noncommittal. Rhun was nodding reluctantly in response to something Manfred had muttered to him.
“You’re sure,” Lior said, “that Dimitri didn’t tamper with him?”
She shook her head and came around to kneel before the king, taking one of his hands in hers to kiss it.
“He did not, Father. Nor shall his lord tamper with mine. Sire, I beg you, let me come with you to treat with Miklos. I have not much power compared to him, but he does not know that. Perhaps my mere presence will keep him on his best behavior. And if not, perhaps I can protect you at least well enough to get out of any trap.”
To Rhys Michael’s surprise, Manfred was nodding, and Lior, though he was scowling, offered no word of protest.
“Well, at least it appears Dimitri did no damage in this particular instance,” Rhun said grudgingly. “I confess, I like not the idea of letting you treat directly with Miklos, Sire, but if you are willing to take the risk, it may well be our best option. Shall I send the messenger back to arrange the meeting?”
Raising Sudrey to her feet, Rhys Michael tucked her hand in the curve of his arm.
“Please do so, my lord marshal,” he said. “My vassal and I are eager to end this confrontation, to ensure that no more good men fall to a folly that need not be. I shall treat with Miklos of Torenth and a single human companion at midafternoon, accompanied by this brave lady.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Blessed be the Lord my strength, which teacheth my hands to war, and my fingers to fight.
—Psalms 144:1
“Tell me about the Haldane,” Miklos said to the man sitting before him and Marek in a guardroom off the gate tower of Culliecairn. “I wish your frank impressions.”
Hombard of Tarkent contained a yawn and made himself sit up a little straighter. The soporific effect of the merasha they had given him in the Gwynedd camp had abated somewhat, but he still would rather have been left alone to sleep it off.
“He is comely, fit, apparently competent,” Hombard said, delving back into memory. “He conveys an air of authority, yet seems somewhat reluctantly dependent upon his lords—in particular, a man who, I believe, is his earl marshal. I would guess there is some friction between the two, or at least an irritation.”
“Most perceptive,” Miklos murmured. “Who else was present?”
“Earl Sighere and the young Duke of Claibourne, as was expected; another senior military officer—by the device on his brigandine, the Earl of Culdi, I believe. Also several men of the Custodes Fidei—a knight, a battle surgeon, a priest—no names were ever mentioned. And two aides.”
“I see.” Miklos glanced thoughtfully at the document Hombard had brought back, then returned his attention to its bearer. “Please continue. Perhaps you would summarize their reaction to the proposal you presented, point by point.”
“Aye, my lord. They doubt your promise to observe a truce while you parley, knowing of Lord Hrorik’s fate, and they question your possible motives for seeking this parley. Knowing you are Deryni, they naturally fear your power. They resent that you have given aid to Prince Marek and seem aware that you act on your own in this matter—that the king your brother has not sanctioned your actions.”
“Succinct and perceptive,” Miklos murmured, nodding. “Anything else?”
“Very little, my lord. I was treated with civility and even kindness by the Haldane, who bade me sit when he observed that the merasha had made me unsteady on my feet. Incidentally, the drug was administered with one of their Deryni prickers, not by mouth; this made the onset much faster and more profound. When I had presented your proposals, I was taken to another place where, I confess, I dozed.”
As he yawned again, Miklos glanced at Marek, who had been lounging against the sill of a window overlooking the yard below, wrapped in a dark cloak. Marek’s most senior captain was with him, a seasoned veteran named Valentin who had taught both young men swordplay as boys. Also present was Miklos’ personal physician, Cosim, a striking-looking man with piercing eyes and silver at his temples, wearing the high-collared dark green tunic of a military Healer.
“Do you still wish to try it?” Miklos asked quietly.
Marek nodded toward Hombard. “I think we ought to Read him first, despite the merasha.”
Hombard looked neither surprised nor dismayed as Miklos bestirred himself to come and lay a hand across the man’s forehead. The drooping eyelids closed and he exhaled with a sigh, his head lolling more heavily against Miklos’ hand. After a few seconds, Miklos flicked a glance of summons in the direction of the Healer, who moved in behind Hombard to take control as his master stepped away.
“They did not permit him to see a great deal,” Miklos said quietly, as he joined Marek. “He did gain a glimpse of our dear cousin, just before they released him to return, but it does not seem to have occurred to them that they could enlist her assistance. They even failed to use her to Truth-Read while they interviewed him.”
“But they’ve apparently decided that she’s sufficient balance to keep you honest,” Marek said with a smirk. “Well, let’s see what can be done. Cosim, is he ready?”
The Healer looked up, dark eyes veiled by his power. “Ready, my lord. Valentin, bring another chair for his Highness.”
As the captain brought the requested chair, setting it beside Hombard’s, Marek threw off his cloak and came to sit. Underneath, he was wearing leathers and harness identical to Hombard’s. In common with all the other men in the room, his long, dark hair was pulled back and braided and clouted in a soldier’s knot. He grinned as he handed Miklos his signet ring.
“I’ll ask you to take care of that for me,” he said. “Have we candles?”
“Here, my lord,” Valentin said, putting a slender, honey-colored taper into Marek’s hands. “Blessed by the Patriarch.”
“You don’t approve, do you, Valentin?” Marek replied. “It isn’t black magic, my old friend; just a simple deception. I have to be able to get to the Haldane if I’m going to kill him.”
“It’s too soon,” Valentin muttered, handing a second candle to the Healer. “You should wait a few years, until you have more heirs.”
“But the longer I wait, the more heirs he’ll have,” Marek pointed out. “Don’t worry; if it isn’t safe, I won’t do anything.”
“So you say,” the old captain muttered.
Smiling indulgently, Marek patted his shoulder for the older man to come closer, then leaned back against him and settled with the candle clasped between his hands as Valentin rested both hands on his shoulders. The Healer had set the second candle between Hombard’s hands and now came around to crouch between the two chairs, his left hand clasped around Hombard’s. After passing his right hand over the candle to conjure flame, he clasped it around Marek’s.
“Have you any questions, my lord, before I take you down?” the Healer asked, himself now th
e bridge between the two men.
Marek drew a deep breath and fixed his gaze on the candle flame in Hombard’s hands, visibly relaxing as he exhaled.
“I’m ready,” he murmured.
Standing before them, Miklos watched with detached interest as his cousin sank deep into trance at the Healer’s bidding, noting as the signs of control deepened, the eyelids fluttered over the dark eyes, and Valentin eventually stepped back.
“Hand … to mind,” Cosim breathed, himself very deep in trancing as he called forth the spell. “Mind … to flame. Bring forth the light … and then bring forth the glamour …”
Almost immediately, fire flared on Marek’s candle, its light gilding the placid planes of his face—which then began to waver and change. Lines sank across the youthful brow, along jowls suddenly less firm; grey began to thread through hair no longer so dark or so glossy. Within seconds, two Hombards sat entranced before Miklos and the Healer Cosim.
A moment to orient himself, and Cosim raised his head to glance back at Miklos.
“Sufficient, my lord?” he murmured.
Miklos surveyed the two now-identical men seated before him and slowly nodded, smiling. “Well done, Master Cosim. Do release him now.”
A flick of power, and Marek was stirring, drawing a deep breath and blinking several times as control was restored. His eyes, now gone from dark to blue, darted to the candle still burning between his clasped hands, and he blew it out with a grin as he glanced up at Miklos, also reaching across to pinch out Hombard’s.
“Satisfactory?” he asked. The voice was several tones lower than Marek’s usual light tenor.
Miklos chuckled and touched the Healer on the shoulder in congratulation. “Very well done, Master Cosim. Perhaps you and Valentin would take the real Lord Hombard off to a well-earned bed. Put Marek’s cloak on him and pull up the hood. I would as soon it not become general knowledge what we do. We shall join you in the yard directly.”
An hour later, two riders emerged from the line of Torenthi troops ranged across the mouth of the Cardosa Pass, heading slowly across the plain toward the Gwynedd line under a white flag of truce. Rhys Michael Haldane watched them from horseback atop a grassy knoll overlooking the plain, Sudrey at his side and Rhun and Manfred flanking them. He was armored but unarmed—as, presumably, were the men coming to meet him. Others of his officers and aides were also gathered round, with the forces of Gwynedd drawn up in orderly lines to either side and back, both Kheldour men and the ones he had brought.
“I still don’t like this,” Rhun muttered, his eyes never leaving the approaching pair. “Why does Miklos insist upon a face-to-face meeting?”
Sudrey, astride a bay palfrey at the king’s left hand, turned her face toward the earl marshal. She had changed her widow’s weeds for the divided skirts and tweeds worn by most noble ladies in these border highlands when they ventured forth on horseback, though a black coif still bound her dark hair.
“Because you found out his agent and broke him,” she said. “He will have attributed at least a part of the credit to his Highness, whether or not this is true. And there are the persistent rumors that the Haldanes are divinely favored.”
“What do you mean, ‘divinely favored’?” Manfred rumbled.
“Why, that God protects the Haldanes,” she replied. “Did He not vanquish Imre, when Cinhil came to claim back his throne? ’Tis the power of God that has ordained the survival of Haldane’s Royal House.”
Rhun snorted. “Consorting with Deryni sorcerers hardly constitutes divine aid, I think. Satanic, perhaps.”
“Oh, do you still think that Deryni magic was responsible for the Haldane restoration?” Sudrey asked, ignoring the jibe. “Granted, Camber MacRorie and his kin convinced the Michaelines to provide military backing—but that was hardly magic. I was only a girl when it happened, and far from Valoret, but I remember that my uncle Termod was quite convinced that Cinhil Haldane had called up something far outside our ability, to defeat Cousin Imre. ’Tis God who protects the Haldanes, my lord, and He will not allow His anointed to come to harm at the hands of a Deryni sorcerer.”
As she rode down the knoll at Rhys Michael’s side, heading out across the plain, he glanced at her in some amazement, adjusting the golden circlet on his head with one gloved hand.
“Why did you tell them that? Do you want to get me killed?”
She chuckled. “They have forgotten, Sire, but you are king by Divine Right. I do not pretend to understand where your powers have come from, but it is important that they believe them come of God. Now, if it should become necessary to use those powers against my kinsman, you have your own justification, even if, for some reason, I cannot cover for you.”
“You expect treachery, then?” he asked.
“I do not expect it, no. But ’tis best to be prepared for such things.”
Nodding thoughtful agreement, he directed his gaze ahead again, studying his adversary as he and Sudrey continued to approach. Now halted in the central area designated for the meeting, beneath the floating banner of white silk borne by Hombard of Tarkent, Prince Miklos of Torenth waited astride a fleet, desert-bred steed the color of a fox. The animal’s flaxen mane and tail exactly echoed the shade of its rider’s blond hair, which was braided and clubbed at the back of his head in a soldier’s knot and bound across the forehead with a fillet of ruddy gold.
Other than some new lines around the dark eyes, Miklos looked scarcely older than when Rhys Michael last had seen him. Instead of the tawny, flowing silks he had worn at Javan’s coronation, nearly seven years before, a close-fitting brigandine of russet leather encased his body, studded with roundels of polished brass that caught the sunlight like a galaxy of suns. Matching vambraces clasped his forearms above gauntleted gloves that flared at the wrists, and the thigh-high boots were cut and studded to incorporate greaves in their design. From what Rhys Michael could see, the prince bore no weapons.
Hombard bowed in the saddle as Rhys Michael and Sudrey drew rein, a proper courtier, but neither Miklos nor the king so much as flicked an eyelid downward.
“Well met, Haldane,” Miklos said pleasantly enough. “You were but a lad when last we met. I see that time has at least enabled you to look like what you claim to be.”
“I make no claim,” Rhys Michael said carefully. “I am what I am—King of Gwynedd—and that is something that your kinsman, who calls himself Marek of Festil, can never hope to be.”
“Indeed?” Smiling, Miklos leaned his crossed forearms casually against his saddle’s high pommel. “That does remain to be seen, does it not?”
“Some other day, perhaps,” Rhys Michael replied. “I believe possession of Culliecairn is the issue here. Your envoy indicated that you now intend to withdraw.”
“In due course.” Miklos nodded toward Sudrey. “Actually, I wished first to speak with my cousin. Thank you for obliging me by bringing her along.”
Rhys Michael glanced at Sudrey, who had stiffened in the saddle.
“I have nothing to say to my husband’s murderer,” she said coldly. “I would not have come, except that my liege lord requested it. I am here to assist the King of Gwynedd, whose vassal I am.”
“And that,” Miklos said, “is precisely what I wished to discuss with you. Cousin, I have been trying for seven years to ascertain what became of you. I did not wish to believe that you would so far betray your blood as to marry against the interests of Torenth.”
“And what is Torenth to me, except that a scion of Torenth has slain my lord?” she retorted. “Where was Torenth when my brother and I were abandoned, after the Festillic collapse? That I found kindness and love amidst my captors I count as one of God’s great mercies.”
“A dubious mercy, if it led you to betray your country, your race, and your kin,” Miklos said mildly. “The royal blood of Torenth runs in your veins, Sudrey of Rhorau. Do you recall how we treat with traitors in Torenth?”
Without further preamble, he raised his right fist
and thrust it toward her with a muttered Word, opening out his fingers with a snap. The gesture launched a fist-sized ball of fire that roared toward her like an inferno, growing as it came. Even as her shields went up, dismay and outrage flaring with her aura, Rhys Michael was interposing himself, his own shields blazing into being.
In a shower of sparks that scattered and fell like shooting stars, the sphere struck Rhys Michael’s shields and dissipated harmlessly, much to the astonishment of both Miklos and Hombard.
What had begun as a casual, almost offhand accompaniment to Miklos’ denunciation now shifted to more focused intent directed not only at Sudrey but also at Rhys Michael, who somehow had managed to avert Sudrey’s just fate. As Hombard glanced uncertainly at his prince, increasingly fighting a now skittish mount, Miklos stabbed a gloved forefinger at the ground behind Rhys Michael. Sudrey screamed as flame leaped up from the very ground and began to trace a curved, fiery line around to the side and then behind Miklos, laying down a containing circle.
“No!”
Even as it began, Rhys Michael saw the danger—that if the circle closed, their escape was cut off. Instinctively he raised one hand in a gesture of forbidding. A Word of command conjured heavy cloud above the flames, weeping moisture that changed to steam as the fire below was quenched—to the dismay of the horses, who were growing increasingly difficult to control. The result was a smoking black line of burned turf outlining just over half of the circle Miklos had intended—now rendered impotent—and to underline his point, Rhys Michael sent a warning burst of energy against Miklos himself.
The Torenthi prince countered it easily, but his expression showed his shock. His horse began fighting the bit, white-eyed and on the verge of panic, and he had to turn some of his attention to bringing it back under control. Hombard was backing his horse away from Miklos, looking very alarmed, and Sudrey had turned her nervous steed, ready to flee at a word from the king.
“Don’t try to interfere, Haldane!” Miklos shouted, again flinging fire behind them to prevent their escape. “’Tis only Sudrey I want.”