The Bastard Prince

  Tammaron raised an eyebrow at that, but Richard only smiled, cunning as his father had been, and even more pitiless.

  “So Miklos is dead, and Marek has gone slinking home to lick his wounds and answer to Miklos’ brother,” Richard said. His smile became wolfish. “That means the king will be coming home after all.”

  “Until the queen is safely delivered,” Tammaron said archly, “you’d best hope the king does come home. And best not to count on that until we see him riding through the gates. Personally, I shall not even begin to rest easily until we are certain that Marek has, indeed, gone home, and that Culliecairn is well and truly in the hands of Eastmarch again.”

  Richard yawned and stood, affecting the uttermost bored indifference. “Gentlemen, you may continue this discussion until dawn, if you wish, but I’m going back to bed for what few hours remain of the night. Until the king does return, I still have a city to protect and troops arriving in the morning.”

  As Richard left and the others began to disperse, Hubert took Rhun’s letter and read over it again for himself, weighing each turn of phrase, for Rhun was not given to choosing his words lightly. The apparent treachery of Miklos of Torenth, while amply repaid, underlined the complexity of the deception in which Dimitri must have been involved and made Hubert worry about how much farther the tendrils of deceit might extend.

  That Marek himself had managed to gain access to the king was particularly disturbing, though it was Rhun’s opinion that the bulk of his and Miklos’ effort seemed to have been focused on eliminating the Lady Sudrey. But given the past history of the Haldanes, Hubert had to wonder whether it had been only Sudrey’s resistance that had prevented Marek from launching an attack to utterly crush his Haldane rival. It did not occur to him to worry about the injury Rhun had reported to the king’s hand.

  Marek himself was about to face the wrath of his brother-in-law, the King of Torenth, in whose torchlit audience chamber he and his two companions nervously waited; he had already weathered his wife’s tearful anger in Tolan. Cosim had warned him to send a written message first, knowing King Arion’s temper, and Valentin had been reluctant to go at all, but Marek had insisted he must bring the news in person. After they arrived at the Royal Portal in Beldour, the gist of their mission evident by their stark attire and the absence of Miklos, a stony-faced chamberlain had whisked them to the most austere of Arion’s private reception rooms, there to languish without refreshment or even seating as the taut minutes gradually stretched nearly to an hour.

  The door opened at last. Unattended, looking recently roused from sleep, King Arion swept into the room in a dark shimmer of black silk robe, his feet unshod, the long hair loose around his shoulders, fairer than Miklos’ had been. Cosim, who had long been King Arion’s vassal, took one look at the rage seething in his sovereign’s eyes and sank to his knees, bowing his forehead to the floor and not daring to rise from that position. Old Valentin gave the young king a precise and respectful military salute but kept his gaze averted, staying well behind Marek. Marek himself, well aware of his potential danger, ventured close enough to kneel humbly at the king’s feet and reached for the hem of his robe to kiss it.

  “How dare you show your face here?” Arion whispered, yanking the silk from Marek’s grasp and moving back a pace, the nimbus of his power crackling around his head, his eyes almost colorless in the torchlight. “Did I not warn you that the time was not yet right to pursue this mad cause of yours?”

  “Sire, it was not entirely Prince Marek’s fault,” old Valentin began.

  “Silence!” Arion commanded. “I will decide what is and is not Marek’s fault!”

  In the stunned hush that followed, Marek cautiously dared to lift his eyes about to the level of Arion’s belt, though he stayed on his knees, his hands crossed tight under his chin in an attitude of deference. The king was only five years older than Marek, but he had the presence of a man of far more years—and had far more mastery of his power than Marek expected he would ever wield. Miklos had been powerful, but casual in his use of his magic; Arion was all focus and steely will. Though Arion terrified Marek when he was in such a mood, the younger man knew he had but one hope of winning back even a chance at the other’s goodwill or even tolerance.

  “Sire, I throw myself on your mercy,” he whispered, cautiously lifting his gaze to the king’s. “If the negligence is entirely mine, I will accept whatever discipline you choose to impose, whatever penalty—even my death, if you deem it fitting. I loved Miklos as the brother I never had and never shall have again. We encouraged one another in the dream we pursued, but our miscalculation was mutual. Though we sought to test the Haldane for the future, our true objective was to put an end to the traitor Sudrey of Rhorau. Neither she nor the Haldane responded as we expected. She—”

  “Do you dare to tell me that Sudrey bested my brother?” the king demanded. “That cannot be.”

  “I know that,” Marek said miserably. “Yet her power played a part. She seemed to lend power, or knowledge, or focus, or something to whatever the Haldane has. Read the truth of what I say, Arion! I don’t know how it happened! You know I cannot lie to you!”

  Arion’s eyes seemed to glow like pools of quicksilver, impaling Marek’s will, the tall, lean form towering above him like an avenging angel. Not bothering with mere words, the king flicked a silent command at Cosim, who had fearfully lifted his head to observe the exchange between the two. Quickly the Healer moved to do the king’s bidding, coming to kneel behind Marek and brace him for the king’s touch, ready to assist when Arion took up Marek’s offer.

  “I give you fair warning, Marek. If you resist at all, I am apt to cause permanent damage,” Arion said, the strong fingers sliding into Marek’s dark hair as the thumbs pressed to his temples. “This angry, I cannot promise to go softly.”

  Numbly resigned to accept what he had invited, whatever might be the cost, Marek closed his eyes and eased back on his hunkers, leaning into Cosim’s enfolding, letting his hands fall loosely to his sides in token of utter submission. As he yielded up his shields, he felt the deft soothing of the Healer’s touch first, relaxing his body and taking his consciousness gently enough down the first few levels into passive readiness. But then Arion’s cold probe was knifing into his mind and soul with surgical precision, laying bare every particle of memory that had to do with Miklos over the last two weeks, every perception and intuition about Rhys Michael Alister Haldane, about Sudrey of Eastmarch, née Rhorau, who had betrayed her kind and helped bring about Miklos’ death—and all the dark memory and anguish of Miklos’ passing and its aftermath.

  As Arion thrust ever deeper, touching now on Dimitri and his mysterious demise, Marek’s growing discomfort began verging into real pain; but having given over control to Cosim, he could only let the Healer take him through and beyond the pain to unconsciousness rather than the oblivion of mind-ripping, for Arion would not relent until satisfied that his subject had yielded everything of consequence.

  When next Marek became aware of anything besides a dull throbbing behind his eyes, he was lying in Valentin’s arms and struggling to breathe. Cosim was kneeling beside them, one hand still touching Marek but himself still reverberating to the memory of the Death-Reading the two of them had done on Miklos, also given over for the angry examination of Miklos’ bereaved brother. Marek heard Arion before he saw him—a stifled sobbing that he soon tracked to the dim recess of a nearby window embrasure, where a darker shadow hunched amid the flickering shadow play from the torches in the room.

  “Arion?” he whispered, struggling to sit up despite the warning murmur from Valentin.

  The sudden movement caused a lancing pain behind his eyes, which abated not at all as the king turned to glare at him, the swollen eyes still angry.

  Say nothing, Cosim warned, stirring enough to try to wrap his healing around the pain in Marek’s head. He knows it was not entirely your fault, but that does not cancel out the loss.

  “We shall not
discuss this further at this time,” Arion said quietly, without any inflection whatsoever. The temperate tone was far more frightening than any outburst of further anger might have been. “Go back to my sister’s capital in Torenth. Give her what comfort you may. Bring my brother’s body back here for burial, but do not come by Portal. By land, with a fitting escort, the journey should take at least a week. Perhaps by then I shall be able to speak to you civilly.”

  With that he was gone, out the door in a swirl of black silk and blacker mood. Not for several seconds did Marek dare to stir, only then turning his gaze uncertainly to the men the king had left him.

  “Cosim, will he ever forgive me?” he asked.

  The Healer bowed his silver head.

  “Do not count on his support for a very long time, my friend,” he said softly. “I have never seen him so angry. Just now, he is angry with you. When his anger turns to Miklos and the Haldane as well, perhaps he will be able to at least accept what has happened. I think it now clear that the Haldane is something we had not anticipated, even if he did not directly kill Miklos.”

  “One day I will take him, Cosim,” Marek said. “But even though I best him with magic, I will need troops to secure what I have won. And I can only get them through Arion’s good graces.”

  “In time, you may regain Arion’s favor,” the Healer replied. “But for now, be thankful that he has spared your life and sanity. Are you able to stand?”

  “I think so,” Marek said, letting Valentin help him shakily to his feet.

  “Then let us obey the king’s command, and go back to the Princess Charis.”

  “Aye,” Marek whispered, passing a trembling hand across his eyes. “And pray a curse upon the man who calls himself King of Gwynedd.”

  The bells of Prime startled the king awake as they had on his previous visit to Saint Cassian’s, and he dragged himself from bed to ready for the day’s journey, not looking forward to the jarring of the ride, but eager to be quit of the place. His hand seemed marginally less swollen, perhaps because of its hot soak the night before, but all his body still ached. He could feel the tension in his neck and shoulders and the warmth of fever in his brow.

  He skipped Mass that morning, for he could not bear the thought of having a Custodes priest minister to him, after the simple sanctity of Father Derfel. Deliberately ignoring Stevanus’ advice, for the battle surgeon was a lay member of the Custodes Fidei, he took his morning dose of painkiller before going into the refectory to break his fast. It made him slightly nauseated on an empty stomach, as Stevanus had warned; but again, eating seemed entirely too much effort, and he only managed to get down some ale and a little bread before pushing away from the table and heading out to the yard, where Rhun and Manfred sullenly awaited orders. He gathered Rhun had shared the previous night’s revelation about the codicil with the older man, for Manfred gave him a hard, cold look before mounting up. Father Lior’s sour countenance suggested that he knew, too; and Brother Polidorus now had joined the other Custodes men riding at the Inquisitor-General’s side.

  The second day’s travel was much like the first, except that Rhys Michael felt worse as the day wore on. As they forged on across the rest of the Iomaire plain, he tried to make himself eat a little whenever they stopped to rest—or at least drink some wine to fortify himself, for he knew he must keep up his strength—but he could feel his fever mounting without the tacil to control it. Rhun and Manfred were never far from his side, and the Custodes bodyguards who rode before and behind him seemed unusually attentive. Gallard de Breffni was prominent among them. When they camped for the night, Cathan reported that there seemed to be more guards around the royal tent than usual, no doubt to prevent the export of any more unauthorized codicils.

  He ate sparingly in his tent with Cathan and Fulk, for he could not stomach the prospect of his enemies’ cold-eyed speculation if he dined in the command tent. After supper, despite his exhaustion, he had Cathan take down a letter to Michaela, for there had been no opportunity to write to her the night before. Writing was less than satisfactory, for other eyes would read his words before they reached the queen, but he knew that having the letters would bring her some comfort. Before they were finished, Stevanus came to dress his hand, accompanied by Brother Polidorus, Father Lior, and even Rhun and Manfred, but no one said much, Stevanus only commenting that his fever seemed to have worsened since morning. Rhys Michael decided it was pointless to remind them that the drug Polidorus had taken away from him might have prevented that.

  When they had gone out, he lay back on his camp bed and brooded on developments as Cathan finished the letter by lantern-light, and Fulk spread his pallet before the tent entrance, preparing for sleep. Stevanus had left the usual dose of painkiller, but Rhys Michael had not yet touched it.

  Outside, the bustle of the camp gradually settled down to the usual night sounds, with Fulk’s gentle snoring soon providing a reassuring background drone. By the time Cathan had brought ink and quill for the king to sign Mika’s letter, Rhys Michael had conceived a further measure he might take, to the comfort of his family, for he was coming to worry that either his weakening condition or the growing enmity of Rhun and Manfred might conspire to prevent him from ever reaching home.

  “Before you take that to Rhun for dispatch, I need you to fetch me the Haldane brooch from my cloak,” he murmured to Cathan, as he scrawled his awkward signature. “And when you come back, please don’t disturb me until I indicate that it’s all right. I’ll tell you then, what this is all about.”

  “Very well.”

  When Cathan had gone, Rhys Michael lay back with the Haldane brooch cupped under his good hand, resting on his chest, his thumb lightly caressing the sleek gold of the clasp as he set the Haldane lion in his inner sight like a battle banner. He gathered his intent as he drove himself deep into trance then, shutting out the pain, shutting out the fever coursing through his body, coiling his design around the core of his Haldane potential, knowing exactly what must be done. He could not and would not impose the full weight of the Haldane legacy on his son at so young an age, but he knew beyond questioning that the potential must be set, both in Owain and in the second son Rhysel claimed Michaela carried. And it might be that Michaela herself would have to do it, if he could not.

  Using the brooch as a focus for this new purpose, as he and Michaela had long used it as a focus for their aspirations to free his crown, he set the requisite spells and bound them with his power, also setting instructions for Michaela on a more superficial level. It took a great deal of energy.

  He was sweating and trembling with chills by the time he had finished. To seal the intent and bind it to his will, he turned the brooch over and braced it against his chest, the clasp now pointed upward, gleaming in the lantern-light. Even his good hand was shaking, and he had to steady the body of the brooch against his bandaged hand so that he could rest the other atop the clasp.

  For strongest binding, he would have preferred to thrust it through his palm, as he had at his empowering; but he knew he did not have the strength, and also dared not risk debilitating injury to his one good hand, with no Healer to attend to it. Considering, he lightly tried the point against the join of thumb and forefinger, then shifted it to the web of skin and muscle and sinew between his middle and ring fingers and closed his eyes—and shoved hard.

  The pain was sharp but brief, and as nothing beside the pulsing throb of his other hand. He drew a deep breath, and another, to disengage from the spell. When he opened his eyes, Cathan was sitting quietly on the edge of the bed beside him, eyes wide. The king managed a shaky smile as he glanced down at the sliver of gold protruding from between his fingers.

  “You can pull that out now, if you will,” he whispered, wincing as he turned his hand slightly to accommodate Cathan. “It’s done. Just make certain that Michaela gets the brooch, if anything happens to me. And the Eye of Rom.”

  Cathan had picked up the hand and was poised to pull out the clasp, but he
faltered at the king’s words, blue eyes flicking first to the great ruby in the king’s right earlobe, then to the grey Haldane eyes.

  “Do you know something I don’t?”

  Rhys Michael swallowed audibly and glanced at the brooch, jutting his chin at it for Cathan to proceed, breathing a little sigh of relief as the clasp slid free.

  “Thank you,” he whispered. “No, I don’t have any particular prescience of disaster; I’m just taking precautions. I’m mostly worried about the hand.” He swallowed again as Cathan laid the brooch aside and then inspected the two small puncture wounds. There was very little blood, and Cathan squeezed the hand to make them bleed.

  “You’d better let me clean that for you,” he murmured, going to dampen a clean towel in the pitcher left from Stevanus’ earlier ministrations.

  When he had done that, also wiping the damp towel over the king’s perspiring forehead and neck, he knelt down and took the newly wounded hand again, pressing it to his forehead, tears in his eyes.

  “You don’t think you’re going to make it, do you, Rhysem?” he whispered. “Dear God, what’s to become of us?”

  “I don’t know,” Rhys Michael murmured. “Humour me, though, and put the brooch in your saddlebag right now. I hope it’s my fever that’s making me fearful, but I want to be sure you have it, if anything does happen.”

  When Cathan had obeyed, he came back to the king, who nodded his thanks and managed a faint smile.

  “Thank you. Now, there’s one more thing I want to do tonight. If I shouldn’t make it through this, I want Michaela to know that my last thoughts were and are of her and our sons. I don’t want to write it, because I can’t be sure she’d get it, but I can set the message in you, to deliver if—if that becomes appropriate. Will you let me do that?”

  “Of course. What do you want me to do?”

  “First give me the painkiller Stevanus left, so I can drift off to sleep when I’m done, then sit here beside the bed so that I can rest my hand on your head. You won’t even remember unless it becomes necessary. I’m taking precautions, because it’s wise to have contingency plans, but it isn’t my intention to die.”