The Bastard Prince (44 page)

As he brought the basin back to the king's bedside and eased the hand into the fresh water, watched suspiciously by Rhun, Rhys Michael allowed himself a tiny sigh and murmured his thanks, then turned his gaze to the earl marshal, who was staring at him from the foot of the bed.

“Thank you for coming,” the king murmured, concerned that he had to concentrate to keep Rhun in focus.

“It doesn't appear that I had much choice,” Rhun said. “What's this ridiculous story Cathan has been telling me about some codicil to your will that you had drawn up in Eastmarch?”

“It isn't a story, and it isn't ridiculous,” the king said quietly. “If I die before an heir of mine comes of age, the Duke of Claibourne and the Earl of Marley are irrevocably appointed as regents, regardless of whoever else you ramrod through the council. And before you even have a chance to kill them, they'll have appointed their own successors—and their successors will appoint successors. Kheldour will have a say in the next regency.”

“Kheldour will be running the kingdom,” Rhun said testily, “and the next thing you know, Kheldour will be providing the next king.”

“I don't think so,” Rhys Michael replied. “And if they did, they couldn't do much worse than your lot have done. You never gave Alroy a chance to be a real king, and you killed Javan when it looked as if he might be one. And you've only been keeping me alive until you were sure you had an heir and a spare to mold in exactly the image you wanted. If it isn't to be a free Haldane king on the throne of Gwynedd, Rhun, I think I might prefer one from Kheldour. The Duke of Claibourne would make an excellent king. Or maybe Kheldour can give my sons a free crown.”

“I don't believe a word of this,” Rhun said. “You're bluffing.”

Rhys Michael laid his head back on his pillows and glanced at the ceiling.

“Show him the draft copy, Cathan.” And as Cathan went to the king's saddlebag to get it, Rhys Michael added, “And don't think that you can simply destroy all the copies and pretend they never existed. There are a number of them—I won't tell you how many—and at least one is bound to reach the hands of those best equipped to make proper use of it. I'll tell you right now that none of them are in my hands anymore.”

As Cathan brought the draft copy over to Rhun, the earl marshal snatched it out of his hand and took it over by the fire to read it. His face was white as he looked up at the king, and he slowly refolded the piece of parchment as he returned to the foot of the bed. Cathan had gone to stand with his back against the door.

“What is it you want?” Rhun asked, creasing the parchment between nervous fingers as he stared appraisingly at the king.

Closing his eyes briefly, Rhys Michael allowed himself to breathe a faint sigh of relief, trying not to drift as he sank deeper into the thrall of the syrup of poppies.

“First of all, I want to get home,” he whispered. “I want to see my wife and son. I don't want cautery, I don't want to be bled, and I don't want anyone to cut off my hand. If we still had Healers—if your colleagues hadn't shot Oriel down like an animal, six years ago—he would have been with me at Culliecairn, and this probably never would have gotten to this state. Without one—well, I simply have to hope I'll be lucky. If I'm not, you can blame it on your precious
Custodes
. The ever-pious Brother Polidorus threw out the ‘Deryni' drug that Lady Stacia gave me to take my fever down. It was helping, but that didn't matter; a Healer had made it. Therefore, it was evil.”

Whatever Rhun was thinking, his lean face revealed none of it. After a taut pause, he said, “I somehow expected the Deryni sympathy.”

“It isn't Deryni sympathy; it's acknowledgment that Healers were a good thing,” Rhys Michael said. “I'd give a great deal to have one here right now. But that isn't going to happen, because by going after the Deryni, you've lost us the Healers as well.”

Rhun shrugged, still toying with the folded piece of parchment, but his eyes had gone hooded and dangerous. “It's pointless to argue about this. You've given me a list of things you
don't
want done to your hand, and you've said you want to go home. What happens then?”

“Once I'm home and well?” Rhys Michael allowed himself a faint smile. “You'd like to know that, wouldn't you? For now, if I were you, I'd worry about keeping me alive. And it's also in your best interests to keep Cathan alive,” he added, improvising to protect his brother-in-law but not revealing the conditional appointment as regent, which would spell his death. “If anything happens to him, you are personally named as the one responsible, Rhun. If you kill the queen's brother, you'll hang. I drew documents to protect him, too.”

Rhun nodded, anger now smouldering openly in the pale eyes. “That's what all that little dance outside the privies was about, isn't it?” he said. “You
told
me to look inside, and I didn't.”

Rhys Michael chuckled weakly. “I didn't sign the documents in the privy, Rhun. There was a tiny room off the stair, just a few steps up. Sighere helped create the diversion so I could dart back down and make you think I'd come out of the garderobe.”

“I suppose Fulk was a part of it, too? Cathan I can understand—he's kin. But Fulk—”

“No, he was a dupe,” Rhys Michael replied. “He hadn't a clue what was going on. He'd have gone straight to his father.”

“Tammaron will still kill him,” Rhun muttered.

“I hope not. He's a good man, and he'll be as appalled as you to learn how he was used.”

Rhun let out an explosive snort and set his hands on his hips, glancing at the floor, then cocked his head at the king.

“All right. I'm a practical man, Sire, so let's get down to practicalities. What shall we do about your hand? If you should die from it because you won't accept sound medical advice, that isn't
my
fault.”

“You'd better hope I
don't
die from it,” Rhys Michael replied. “Have a look. You've ample field experience. What do you think?”

He lifted it slightly from the basin, to the sound of dripping water, glanced at it, men looked away queasily as he let it back down. As he had hoped, Rhun came over to inspect it more dispassionately, lifting it slightly out of the water with two fingers from under the palm and then shifting his gaze to the grey Haldane eyes—and was snared in them, as Rhys Michael had intended, though the king drew in his controls gently, so Rhun would not realize what was happening.

“It looks as if Stevanus started removing the sutures,” Rhun said.

Rhys Michael nodded. “I couldn't stop him.”

Rhun blinked. “It will let the wound drain, if you won't let him cauterize.”

“If it were your hand, would you let him cauterize it?” Rhys Michael asked. “Tell me truly.”

Rhun looked at him and blinked again, sinking deeper into the spell. “I—don't know. There's fever here and local infection, but no sign of poisoning going up the arm. Still, if you really intend to keep traveling with this—”

“I
must
be able to travel, Rhun,” he said softly. “I want to get home. I'll do it flat on my back in a horse-litter, if I must, but I have to keep moving. I don't know what's going to happen with this, but I—want to see my wife and son.”

He set his good hand on Rhun's wrist at that, clasping his fingers around and using the closer contact to press deeper. Rhun's eyes closed, and he started to sway on his feet, but Cathan came to support him from behind, though he held back from any further involvement as Rhys Michael drove deeper still.

It was difficult to stay focused, with the syrup of poppies dulling his concentration, but he feared he might never have another chance like this. Skimming over the filth and guilt and hatred he knew was there, not touching their earlier conversation about the documents, he set a succession of irresistible commands—some of which he would probably regret, when called to final judgment, but which would serve what must be done, to secure a Haldane future. It took a while, but he had been thinking about what he needed to do while he waited for Rhun to show up.

When he was finished, he blocked all memory or access to what he had done, released Rhun's wrist, then released Rhun himself to the new instructions set deep in his mind. Cathan very quietly returned to his place against the door.

“I'm very tired now,” Rhys Michael murmured, as Rhun blinked. Rhys Michael let the injured hand back into the water—cooler now than when they had begun—then looked up at Rhun again. “Could we please ask Master Stevanus to come back and rebandage my hand? And it's understood that there isn't going to be any cautery or bleeding?”

Straightening, Rhun picked up one of the towels and dried his hands, his jaw set, the anger back in his eyes.

“You're a very stubborn man, Sire. You always have been. If you're determined to continue on tomorrow, thought—”

The king allowed himself a yawn that was not at all feigned. “I really don't care to discuss this further, my lord. I've had a fairly stiff dose of painkiller, so I'm afraid I'm starting to drift. Please fetch Master Stevanus.”

“I'll call him, Sire,” Cathan said.

Rhun left as Stevanus came in with Fulk, but Polidorus was not allowed to enter. Rhys Michael could hear voices raised in anger receding down the corridor as Stevanus came over to him.

“No cautery and no bleeding,” Rhys Michael told him, extending his dripping hand. “Just dry it and dress it and wrap it up again. I want to be out of here early in the morning.”

He had drifted into sleep by the time Stevanus finished wrapping up his hand, as certain as he could be that Cathan and Fulk would ensure that his wishes were respected, and slept deep and dreamlessly for what remained of the night. He would have been heartened to know that the Healer Queron once more was on the move, riding to rendezvous with him, bringing hope of relief from his pain; but he did not know.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-FOUR

Traitors, heady, high-minded, lovers of pleasures more than lovers of God.

—II Timothy 3:4

The news of the king's injury and the outcome in Eastmarch reached Rhemuth in the early morning hours as Rhys Michael slept uneasily at Saint Cassian's. Though troops were already on the way to the capital from
Arx Fidei
and Carthane, the former expected to arrive by midmorning, the great lords resident in the capital breathed a collective sigh of relief as they gathered in the council chamber by torch and candlelight to hear one of Hubert's scribes read out Rhun's account of the resolution at Culliecairn. That the king had survived, apparently by the grace of Sudrey of Eastmarch, was received as almost miraculous, especially when they learned that Sudrey had stood against not only Prince Miklos, but almost certainly the disguised Marek of Festil.

“What do you suppose they were trying to accomplish?” Father Secorim asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes, for like the rest of them, he had been summoned from his bed when the messenger arrived—a knight called Henry of Rutherford.

Hubert rolled his eyes heavenward, trusting the candlelit darkness to cloak his impatience; Secorim had much to learn before he could hope to be Paulin's match.

“If they could have done it, I'm sure they would have slain the king then and there,” he replied. “However, I very much doubt that was their expectation. What they apparently intended in the short term was the slaying of Sudrey of Eastmarch, née Rhorau, whom they considered to have betrayed her House and her race by marrying Eastmarch. In truth,
I
would have said that
Eastmarch
betrayed his lineage and his race by marrying Deryni.” He sighed. “But we were hardly in a position to pursue the point, when we only learned of it fifteen years after the fact. At least the bitch is dead now.”

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.