The Bastard Prince (49 page)

“I think it best if you remain here and pray for him, Father—and for yourself,” Queron said, neutral of tone but with the force of compulsion behind his words. “He forgives, but he does not wish your presence.”

Queron did not wait to see the effect of his order, only closing the door and returning to Rhys Michael's bed. Cathan and Fulk had gone to the other side, Cathan kneeling nearest the king's head to pull the Haldane sword quietly from underneath the bed and lay its shining length atop its owner's body with the cross-hilt at the breast, gently bringing the king's good hand to rest upon it, sign both of faith and of kingship. Queron bade Stevanus come beside him, on the king's left, pulling the leather pouch from inside the neck of his habit as he knelt.

The little pyx inside the pouch was silver-gilt, plain, but it blazed like a sun in Queron's psychic sight as he opened it and took out a small consecrated Host. Holding it before the king's burning gaze, the Healer-priest spoke the words that proclaimed their faith, speaking them in the common tongue, that none might mistake his meaning:

“Beloved son, behold the Lamb of God, Who taketh away the sins of the world. Receive this food for thy journey: the Bread of Heaven, containing in itself all delight; the Body of Christ, to keep thee in life everlasting.”

Rhys Michael's breathless “Amen” barely stirred his lips, and tears were trembling on the closing lashes like jewels as Queron laid the Host on his tongue. Leaving the king to commune with his God, the priest returned his gaze to the vessel of sunlight glowing in his hand and carefully took out another Host, breaking it in quarters and giving one to Cathan, another to Fulk, the third to Stevanus. The fourth he himself reverently consumed after murmuring the accompanying words in Latin:

“
Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodiat animam meam in vitam aeternam. Amen.
”

But he had gently caught the minds of all the others as he touched them, and when he had given thanks for his own Communion, he gathered together their several strands of focused meditation to weave another, silent exhortation, this time calling unseen Powers to witness the passage of the one who shortly would enter their realms. Those Powers were the same Rhys Michael had seen come to speed Alroy on his way, who had witnessed Rhys Michael's coming into his heritage, the same whose presence Queron himself had sought so many times, to bless so many purposes—Guardians and Protectors and Teachers.

And now, Conveyers at last of the soul's passage into—Other. Queron's sorrow was tempered with joy as he bade them welcome, lifting up his heart in glad summoning, offering up wordless greeting by names that caught but a hint of their bearers' puissance and beauty.

Raphael of the winds, serene and gentle, ethereal as a dawn mist but powerful as a raging storm, transparent wings trailing beams of golden sunlight.

Michael of the flames—better known to Joram and his warrior kin than to a Healer like Queron, but a steady and faithful protector of those who must live by the sword—or by the fire of their wits.

Gabriel, Queron's own especial patron, glad herald of the Blessed Virgin, powerful but compassionate, quicksilver-subtle, changing as the tides and as deep as the sea.

And finally Uriel, whose specific commission it was to usher souls across the Great Abyss; Uriel, rock-steady, whose earth would claim the earthly bodies of all, in time, but who now waited to receive a soul. The rainbow shiver of unseen wings rustled the very air around Queron as he gave the Four thanks for their coming and brought the king into their presence.

Rhys Michael did not rouse, but his hand contracted slightly on the hilt of the Haldane sword. As he gave a little shudder, his breath rasping in his chest, Queron used his thumb to sign a cross on the king's forehead in blessing, then gently laid his hand over the king's, with the sword beneath, bowing his head in homage both to him and to the Ones who waited.

Dearest son, be free to go
, he whispered in the king's mind.
Your body can no longer serve you. You have fought a noble fight against powerful adversaries, and you have won a chance for your sons. Others will take up the fight now. Be at peace, and go when you are ready
.

The king did not go immediately. A little while longer he lingered, inward-focused and scarcely breathing, perhaps gathering his resolve for that final leap into the Unknown. But Queron sensed that moment when Rhys Michael Alister Haldane finally cast loose the last of the ties binding him to earthly life.

The labored breathing faltered once and then ceased. The hand under Queron's went slack. Lifting his gaze to search the too-pale face, at peace now, Queron fancied he saw the king restored, the king Rhys Michael should have been, crimsonmantled and crowned with the great state crown, clear-eyed and brimming with health, his grey gaze fixed steadfastly on something beyond Queron's head as he rose up out of his abandoned body to join another young man who looked very much like him, with the same grey eyes and jet black hair and a crown of running lions on his head, who also pointed where Rhys Michael was looking.

Queron turned his gaze to follow and beheld another figure cloaked and hooded in grey, extending something in both its hands toward the raptly staring Cathan. Neither Fulk nor Stevanus seemed aware, both with their faces buried in their hands. And as the greyling figured turned, lowering the hands
almost
enough to reveal what he held, Queron caught just a glimpse of the face deep inside the hood—a face he had sought to know for many years.

Camber!

He almost spoke the name aloud, but even as his lips parted, that portion of the vision was gone—and all the spirit hosts that had surrounded it, receding at dizzying speed to a single point of brilliant light directly above Rhys Michael's head, that suddenly was not! Queron gasped as it winked away, the spell broken, then let out a slow sigh, for he had not remembered to breathe for many seconds. Cathan was staring at the king's face, blinded by tears, slowly nodding. The others remained unmoving, with heads bowed.

“May Christ—Who has called thee—now receive thee, beloved son,” Queron managed to whisper, almost by rote, slowly crossing himself, willing the pounding of his heart to slow. “
Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine
—”

“
Et lux perpetua luceat ei
,” Cathan murmured, the other two joining in raggedly.

“
Kyrie eleison.
”

“
Christe eleison, kyrie eleison
…”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-SEVEN

I have seen the wicked in great power.

—Psalms 37:35

A short while later, kneeling at the back of the convent church, Queron did his best to help Cathan regain some measure of equilibrium before leaving him. The younger man had done with weeping for the moment and now knelt merely trembling beside the brown-robed old priest, though his face remained buried in his hands.

Queron still did not know what Camber had shown to the boy, though he suspected it might have had something to do with Cathan's final commission from the king. There had been no time to ask at the king's bedside. Further prayers beyond the
Kyrie
seemed superfluous after the holy simplicity of Rhys Michael's passing, and Queron knew he must be away from here as soon as possible.

So after Cathan had tearfully slipped the Haldane sword back under the bed and removed the Eye of Rom, secreting it in his belt pouch for Michaela, Queron had left Fulk and Stevanus to grieve at the king's bedside and silently instructed Cathan to indulge his own grief in as dramatic a fashion as he could, as cover to get the two of them out of the death chamber.

“The king is at peace,” Queron informed Lior and the others waiting outside, as he led the sobbing Cathan out of the room. “His passing was very gentle. I shall take this young man outside to compose himself now. Father, perhaps you would lead the appropriate litanies here at the king's bedside.”

Lior and the others had surged into the room to see for themselves with hardly a second look at Queron and Cathan, each with his own priorities, now that the king was dead—Lior coldly practical, Polidorus sharp-eyed and intent, Manfred apparently unable to believe they had actually done it, Rhun all too well aware what they had done. Cathan had been reluctant to leave his beloved Rhysem in such hands, but knew with his reason that the king was no longer there to be hurt by them.

“I've given you what guidance I can, as quickly as I can,” Queron murmured, shifting back to speech as he prepared to leave Cathan in the chapel. “I have to ask, though, before I go, just what you saw, there at the end. I shan't intrude, but I have to ask.”

Cathan lifted his head, not looking at Queron, still a little caught up in what he had witnessed, both sacred and profane.

“It was a reminder of something I have to do for Owain,” he whispered. “Rhysem wanted me to see that he gets the Haldane brooch. I know the earring is somehow important—the Eye of Rom—but there's something about the brooch as well.” He shook his head. “I can't tell you any more.”

“There's no need,” Queron said gently, for Rhys Michael had told him of Cathan's mission.

Cathan swallowed, then looked up at Queron searchingly. “Can you see that Mika knows Owain is meant to have it, Father? It isn't a state jewel, so no one may think of it. If—something happens to me, before I can get back to her, they'll still give her Rhysem's things, won't they? They've killed him; surely they wouldn't deny her a few keepsakes.” He swallowed hard and looked away, shaking his head. “God, widowed at twenty!”

“Steady, son. I'll see that she knows. But you must do your part to see that you get back. Don't give them any excuse to kill you.”

Cathan nodded, sniffling back the last of his tears, and stiffened as Fulk came into the church, looked around, and headed right for them.

“Father, they're looking for you,” he whispered, leaning between them. “You'd best go while you can. You know too much about the king's death.”

Nodding, Queron murmured, “Thank you,” and sent the young man to kneel at the back of the church in the shadow of a clerestory pillar.

“At least we've won that one,” he murmured, as he set his hand on Cathan's arm and prepared to leave. “If he survives this, keep track of him and don't underestimate his usefulness.”

“What do you mean, ‘if he survives this'?”

“Well, being Tammaron's son may save him, but he still knows too much. So does Stevanus. So do you. Be very careful.”

“I plan to be,” Cathan agreed. “And you?”

Queron gave him a grim smile. “Your Rhysem really did strike the regents what could be a deathblow, son, by issuing that codicil. But it will all be for naught if it can't be implemented. I'll inform our people as soon as I've left here, and they'll notify the Kheldour lords. From here out, we've all got to play our parts, to make certain all our sacrifices haven't been in vain.”

Nodding bleakly, Cathan looked up again at the Deryni priest. “I'll do the best I can, Father. And thank you for coming. I know what you risked.”

Queron smiled gently. “I only wish I could have reached him in time to bring healing to his body as well as his soul. The Haldanes have not been lucky in this generation. God grant that his sons will fare better.”

As Cathan nodded again, wistful, dispirited, Queron gently laid his right hand on his head in blessing, sending across a burst of further information Cathan might need, even as his lips moved in the traditional words.

“
Benedicat te omnipotens Deus, Pater, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus. Amen.
”

Cathan managed to repeat the
Amen
, reeling a little on his knees, unable to see for a few seconds for the emotion whirling through his mind; but even as he recovered his senses, Queron was gone. Cathan remained where he was for a few minutes, head bowed in his hands, gathering his composure, then rose to follow, pausing to lay a hand lightly on Fulk's shoulder.

“Come, we have duties to the king,” he said softly. “If it's permitted, I intend to keep watch by him tonight. Will you join me?”

Fulk nodded slowly and got to his feet, a kindred spirit in his grief, his face a mask of stunned disbelief and loss.

“It will be my honor,” he said quietly.

Still shaking off the numbness of his sorrow, Cathan tried to make his mind turn toward practicalities of survival as he and Fulk crossed the courtyard, heading for the cloister garth. He saw no sign of Queron, but there seemed to be a great deal of activity over by the stables. He hoped it was not an indication that Queron had been taken, but as he watched several mounted patrols ride out, he guessed that the elusive Father Donatus was still being sought. He thought the wily old Deryni would be hard to corner.

Thankful for that, at least, he continued on into the cloister garth and headed toward the infirmary and the room where the king's body lay. Somewhat to his surprise, he saw no outward sign that anything had changed within. When he and Fulk entered the room, he found out why.

It apparently had not occurred to the guards outside that the king's aides should not be admitted. Close beside the deathbed, their faces starkly lit by the torches held by two
Custodes
monks, Manfred and a tight-jawed Rhun looked on while Polidorus stitched at the bloody stump of the king's right hand, assisted by Father Magan. Master Stevanus was present but not participating in this desecration of the royal corpse, head bowed where he stood between Lior and Gallard de Breffni. The king's severed hand lay in a bloodied basin, purpled and almost obscene, hardly recognizable for what it was.

All eyes shifted toward the door as Cathan and Fulk came into the room, and Lior was gesturing urgently to Gallard even as Cathan gasped, “What are you doing?” and started forward, and Fulk tried to hold him back.