The Bastard Prince (11 page)

“Pardon the intrusion, my lady,” the girl murmured, eyes averted as she dipped in a nervous curtsey.

“Nonsense. I asked you to come.”

Neither Cathan nor the king could see how the girl brushed her mistress' hand as she straightened from her curtsey, but the touch seemed to freeze Michaela's thoughts in her head.

You cannot resist me, but you have nothing to fear
, came a voice in her mind, though Liesel's lips did not move.

Michaela blinked, a part of her aware that this was familiar, that Liesel was a friend, an even more deeply buried part of her remembering what was about to be set in motion.

“I've been waiting a long time for this,” she whispered, closing her eyes briefly. “But, come in and show the king and my brother. Cathan, I want you to see how beautifully Brother Lorenzo replaced this binding.”

Cathan looked at her a little oddly, but Liesel was already heading across the room to show off the book, diverting the men's attention from the fact that Michaela locked the door before following. The queen reached her chair between husband and brother just as Liesel proffered the book for Cathan's inspection—and took control of him as her hand touched his.

“Rhysem, Liesel is a friend,” Michaela found herself whispering urgently, as Cathan breathed out with a faint sigh and his eyelids fluttered closed. “She's come to help us. Please don't raise an alarm until you've heard what she has to say.”

“Hear me, Sire,” Rhysel joined in urgently, not breaking gaze with the king, keeping one hand on Cathan's wrist as she set her book aside. “Read the truth of what I say. I promise you that I am not an enemy. What I am, I think you know.”

The stunned Rhys Michael had half risen from his chair, instantly on guard, but at Michaela's nod of reassurance, sitting calmly in her chair between them, he partially subsided. Still watching him, Rhysel came around to stand between Cathan and Michaela, relaxing their controls. Cathan blinked, then turned to look up at her in awe. Michaela swallowed nervously, but could not seem to summon up any fear.

“I apologize to all of you,” Rhysel said softly. “It isn't usually done, to take control of friends without their permission. But I had to be certain you wouldn't raise an alarm before you realized I wasn't a threat. And I am
not
a threat—not to the three of you, at any rate. The great lords are another matter, entirely.”

“You're Deryni,” Rhys Michael breathed, wide-eyed. “Someone's come at last. Javan promised me you would, but it's been so long—”

Rhysel let herself relax just a little, briefly turning away to pull a stool closer.

“They hurt us badly when they killed your brother, Sire,” she said quietly, sinking down on the stool. “Those few Deryni who had successfully infiltrated the Court were killed—though at least no one ever knew for certain what they were. After that—well, we have never been very many, Sire, who could work at the levels necessary to do you any serious good—which is partially why we had to wait for my generation to grow up a bit. My mother was Evaine MacRorie, and my father was the Healer Rhys Thuryn, for whom you are partially named.”

“Rhys and Evaine's daughter,” Rhys Michael murmured, taking it all in. “I remember both of them. That makes you—some kind of a distant cousin to Mika and Cathan.” He looked at her uncertainly. “Are you a—a Healer, then?”

Rhysel smiled and shook her head. “Alas, no, though my brother and sister both have that gift.”

“And what gift do
you
have, Mistress Liesel?” Michaela found herself asking, not by compulsion this time, but out of genuine curiosity.

Their fair captor smiled. “Actually, my name is Rhysel—though I've made, ah, certain ‘adjustments' to ensure that you and your brother won't slip and call me that. That's part of my gift.” She shifted her gaze back to the king. “I must ask that you guard your own tongue in that regard, Sire.”

“Then, you—haven't tried to influence me,” Rhys Michael whispered.

She shook her head. “Almost certainly, you would have felt my touch. But if you hope to survive what may wait for you in Eastmarch, you must allow my touch tonight. Do you know of the power that your brother bore?”

“What good did it do
him
?” the king replied, looking down at his clasped hands. “The great lords still killed him, in the end.”

“King Javan had some appalling luck and made some unfortunate decisions that had nothing to do with whether or not he had that power,” Rhysel retorted. “But if you aren't prepared to meet Prince Miklos or Marek of Festil on their own terms, it's quite possible that your son will never even get to be a puppet king!”

Rhys Michael looked up sharply at that, and Michaela gasped and set a hand of entreaty on Rhysel's forearm.

“Can you really help us?”

“I can try.” Rhysel turned her golden gaze directly on the king's. “But everything hinges on your willingness not to resist what is asked of you tonight, Sire—and even that may not be sufficient.”

Rhys Michael breathed out a heavy sigh.

“If you're asking me to open my mind to you, I don't think I can,” he whispered. “I have shields. Javan tried to get past them, but he couldn't.”

“Because you were trying to prevent it,” Rhysel breathed. “But you
can
learn to lower them. We'll show you how.”

“
We!
”

Rhysel nodded. “Joram and my brother Tieg. There's a way to smuggle them into the castle in disguise. If they should be caught and found out, it's death for both of them—and probably death for the rest of us as well, if anyone draws the correct conclusions—but we're willing to take the risk, if you agree to do your part.”

“And what—what would I have to do?” Rhys Michael whispered.

“Whatever they ask you to do—
whatever
they ask, no matter how strange it may sound or how much it might frighten you. That goes for all three of you,” she added, including Michaela and Cathan in her glance.

Michaela swallowed, not taking her eyes from Rhysel's. “I'll do it,” she whispered. “You have my word.”

“And mine,” Cathan agreed.

“And what about you, Sire?” Rhysel murmured.

Hardly even breathing for a few seconds, Rhys Michael stared at her searchingly—he had been Truth-Reading her for some thro—then turned his gaze neutrally to his wife.

“Mika, give me the Haldane brooch, please,” he said.

As she slowly unclasped the brooch with trembling hands, the king got to his feet, the grey Haldane gaze meeting Rhysel's unflinchingly.

“You shall have my word as well,” he said, as Michaela handed him the brooch. “But for a pledge as important as this, I wish to make it on something more important than even a holy relic.” He cupped his two hands around it and held it slightly toward Rhysel, who also stood.

“My lady, are you aware what this means to us?” he asked softly.

Rhysel nodded. “Your aspirations for a Haldane throne that's free.”

“Then, believe me when I say to you that this is my most sacred oath,” the king said, shifting his right hand to cup over the top of it. “By the life of my son who is and the child who shall be”—his glance darted briefly to Michaela—“I pledge you my word as an anointed king that I shall do everything in my power to assist you and those who shall come.”

“I swear it also,” Michaela whispered, laying her hand atop his.

Cathan also had risen as he saw what his brother-in-law intended, and as the brooch was extended to him in turn, he kissed the fingertips of his right hand, then laid them over the brooch now cupped again in the king's hands.

“My faith as well,” he said, glancing aside at Rhysel. “There is no holier oath I can swear to my liege and king.”

Tears were glittering in Rhysel's eyes as Cathan's hand fell away, and she nodded tentatively toward the brooch.

“May I, Sire?” she whispered.

Nodding, he held it out to her, still cupped in the hollow of his hands, locking his gaze with hers as she laid both her hands lightly atop it, one overlapping the other.

“I pledge you my word that I am your true servant, Sire,” she said, “and that I and mine shall never play you false. What we shall do, we shall do only for good and for the good of this kingdom. So help me God.” She swallowed at his nod and withdrew her hands.

“I'll go now, to bring the others. Cathan, if Fulk should return before I do, be certain to leave the door ajar to warn me.”

“That I will, my lady,” Cathan murmured. “But, is there anything else we should do while you're gone? Any preparations we should make?”

She quirked him a wry smile and picked up her book. “Your prayers would not be amiss.”

The bored guards outside the royal apartments did not question her departure and would not cause problems when she returned. Soon, a torch in one hand and book hugged close in the other, she was cautiously exiting the turnpike stair on the library floor—sent by the queen to exchange the book for another, should anyone inquire.

The Haldane man-at-arms and gangly squire waiting in the room adjacent to the library wore the faces of Joram and Tieg, though no one in the castle was likely to recognize either. Joram had never spent much time at Court, and he had covered his distinctive silver-gilt hair with a quilted arming cap and mail coif. In addition, the Haldane crimson of the surcoat over his leather jazerant was very different from the Michaeline blue that had always been associated with him.

As for Tieg, he had been a child of two or three on his last visit to the castle, a far cry from this lean, long-limbed youngster kitted out in the livery of a Haldane squire. Since midafternoon, someone had barbered his reddish hair in the stark pudding-bowl style expected of young gentlemen in squire's training, reinforcing a disguise that would enable him to move about the castle almost invisibly. As a final touch, Tieg was cradling two dusty, grey-glazed bottles of wine, ostensibly brought up from the royal cellars, and the thoroughly bored-looking Joram raised a laconic eyebrow as he held up a third.

It was a scenario not likely to be questioned, for one of the illusions that Rhys Michael had taken pains to maintain during the years of his incarceration was that of a prodigious capacity for alcohol. In fact, far more wine had gone down the royal garderobes than had passed the royal lips, but he had quickly learned that when the great lords thought him less than sober, they sometimes tended to talk more freely in front of him. Sending down to the royal cellars on the eve of separation from his wife and son was not at all out of character.

Nodding silent approval, Rhysel sent both of them a quick assessment of her progress with her royal charges. Then, after scanning the corridor outside, she scurried back the way she had come, so that she might arrive back at the royal apartments before them. The guards took only bored note of her return, and a brief word with each ensured that the two men soon to arrive would not be challenged. She left her torch in a wall cresset before going inside.

She found the door ajar between the outer anteroom and the solar, as she had feared—though at least that meant that Fulk had returned now instead of later, to interrupt important work. As she slipped into the solar and saw Fulk sitting with Cathan at the table, Fulk in the chair the king had occupied, she reflected that she had been looking forward to what she was about to do for nearly as long as she had been resident at the castle.

“Oh, good evening, Sir Fulk. The queen bade me fetch her a book.”

Fulk came to his feet and bowed, casual and smiling, and Cathan glanced around with a silly grin. The table had been mostly cleared in her absence, but a silver goblet stood before Fulk, and another was in Cathan's hand. The latter had his feet propped up on the near arm of the queen's empty chair.

“Too late,” Cathan said cheerily, raising his cup in salute. “The King's Grace has already changed his plans for the evening. I don't suppose you'd care to change yours as well?”

Rhysel smiled and arched an eyebrow as she came closer, a little surprised—and flattered—at his choice of a ruse, but playing along. Despite his slightly slurred speech, Cathan was not drunk.

“Indeed,” she replied, “the thought
is
tempting—and 'tis a passing fine book of love poetry that's set to go to waste. But with
two
handsome gentlemen to choose from—”

Chuckling good-naturedly, Fulk came over to pluck the book from her hands.

“Here, now. Let's see what—”

One of her hands closed over one of his, and she had him. As his eyes fluttered closed, and he started to sway, she steadied him and glanced at Cathan, indicating the outer door with her chin. At the same time she tightened her controls and guided the oblivious Fulk to a seat back at the table—but
not
the king's chair.

In a matter of seconds, while Cathan went into the outer chamber to await the others' arrival, she had made the necessary adjustments to ensure that Fulk Fitz-Arthur henceforth would be the king's man first, and not his father's. Other than that, he was no worse than most young men of his class, and far better than most. And now that he would be unable to remember or tell of anything unusual that he might see or hear …

She got him back on his feet just as the connecting door from the outer chamber gently opened, and Cathan glanced in, standing aside then to admit Joram and Tieg. Rhysel shot them a relieved smile as she ushered Fulk past them, and Cathan came in and closed the door behind them.

“Come and sit down, Cathan,” Joram said quietly, sweeping off his mail coif and arming cap and tossing them onto the table.

Cathan looked around at the sound of his name, his breath catching in his throat as Joram's grey eyes caught and held his.

“Sit, please,” Joram repeated.