The Bastard Prince (10 page)

“What
about
Michaela?” Ansel asked, almost simultaneously.

“Oh, Ansel, she's your half sister; you needn't sound so shocked,” Rhysel replied. “We've all tended to forget, because she's been blocked, but she
is
Deryni. Not a very powerful one, even if she weren't blocked, and without any training—but that could be remedied.”

“By Tieg,” Ansel said disbelievingly. “You'd have him unblock her, and she's suddenly the equivalent of a fully trained, experienced Deryni.”

“Of course not. But the king trusts her more than any other living person. She might be able to help us catalyze him.”

“I can't even consider such a notion,” Joram said, not looking at Tieg, whose expression had a hopeful look. “We daren't risk Tieg on something so uncertain.”

“You'll need a Healer,” Rhysel countered.

“Queron. Rickart,” Joram replied.

“But they can't unblock Michaela.”

“But they
are
trained Deryni and experienced ritualists,” Joram pointed out. “Besides, what makes you think Michaela could be useful, if she did have her powers?”

“I know that she'd do anything to help her husband,” Rhysel said simply. “Incidentally, she's carrying another boy; Tieg showed me what to look for, and I finally was able to read it.”

Queron groaned, and Joram merely shook his head.

“That gives the great lords their ‘heir and a spare,'” Ansel murmured, looking stricken.

“True enough,” Jesse agreed, “but they don't know that yet—and won't, until the child is born. A lot could happen between now and then.”

Niallan turned him a droll look. “I don't think we can count on another miscarriage to save us this time, Jesse.”

“It won't matter much anyway, if Marek launches magic at the king and he has no protection,” Ansel said.

“Which is why he must have power,” Rhysel replied. “Surely you see that. Joram, I haven't got time to argue with you. We've got to try. It's his only hope.”

Joram only closed his eyes for a long moment, turning his head aside to bury his face in one pale hand briefly.

“I confess to being very nearly daunted,” he said quietly, as he raised his head and forced himself to draw a deep breath. “All our planning has been geared to a schedule six months away—first an attempt to bring the king's power through, and then the follow-up with loyal troops shifted into the castle by Portal, the way we did for Cinhil. There's no way we can move our men that fast even if the first could be done. I'd be throwing away lives for nothing.”

“Then, we won't worry about that part until
after
Eastmarch is resolved,” Rhysel replied. “I agree that there's no way we can move the full operation forward so quickly. But meanwhile, we do what we can to bring the king's power through
tonight
. If it isn't tonight, it may not happen at all. And if it doesn't and Marek of Festil brings magic to the meeting in Eastmarch, we may lose another Haldane. I thought that's what all our sacrifices have been for—to keep the rightful Haldane kings on the throne of Gwynedd and give them every possible chance to reign independent of great lords or regents. If Rhys Michael is killed, it's
ten years
before his son is of age.”

“I
have
dealt with a regency before, you know!” Joram snapped. “I do have some idea what would be involved.”

“Then give the king the best possible chance to survive this,” she replied. “We can't let him ride off to Eastmarch without at least
trying
to bring through his powers. We've discussed the theory often enough, and you've personally helped bring other Haldane kings to power.”

“With
preparation
,” Joram agreed. “With an experienced team who knew precisely what they were doing. And it didn't work for Alroy.”

“Only because you never got a chance to finish what Cinhil started,” Rhysel retorted. “It worked for Cinhil, and it worked for Javan. As for an experienced team—well, none of you were experienced when Cinhil came to power. You learned as you went along. This time, at least
you
have experience.”

Joram sighed heavily and looked away from her, shaking his head, clearly preparing another objection, but she set a hand on his wrist and drew his gaze back.

“Joram, we can't hope to succeed without you,” she said. “Tieg and I are as ready as we
can
be, under the circumstances, but we need you to direct us. And Michaela can be drafted to help, once Tieg reinstates her powers—and Cathan, too.”

Ansel snorted, a short bark of mirthless laughter. “Rhysel, they were only children when they lost what scant powers they had; it was I who had it done, to protect them. And before that, they'd had no training. My dear mother forbade it.”

“I know that,” Rhysel replied. “But I've taken the liberty of laying some groundwork, at least with the queen. I've blocked all memory of what I've done, but she has the full background of what she is and was, and what she must let be done to help her husband survive. I can release that in an instant. Cathan is less certain, because I haven't had opportunity to probe him or work with him, but I know that he's utterly devoted to his sister and the king. There's absolutely no question of that. I'm sure he'd cooperate as best he's able.”

“And what about the king?” Joram asked.

Rhysel glanced down at her hands, surprised to find them nervously pleating a section of her skirt.

“I haven't dared to try touching him yet, for obvious reasons. The shields are going to be his biggest obstacle—and ours. He'll be suspicious, as well he should be. That's why I think that Michaela will be the key to gaining his cooperation, especially with so little time to prepare and explain. I know there are excruciating risks, just to confront him with the possibility, but it can work, Joram. It
has
to work.”

“And if it doesn't?” he asked.

She drew a deep, fortifying breath and met his gaze unflinchingly.

“If it doesn't work,” she said softly, “you and I and whoever else is involved probably will not survive to worry. We've waited for my generation to be ready for this day; perhaps it will be for the next generation to try again.”

“If we do it right,” Tieg said, speaking for the first time, “it won't be necessary for the next generation to try again. I know we can do it, Uncle Joram.”

“Ah, the optimism of youth,” Joram murmured. He closed his eyes briefly, then nodded.

“Very well. We're left with no choice. Queron, the rest of you, am I going to have your full support in this? We'll have a lot to do in the next few hours.”

The two younger men nodded, wide-eyed, and Niallan sighed and whispered, “Aye,” as Queron lifted a hand in reluctant agreement.

“All right, then. Rhysel, go back to the queen and make the basic preparations you outlined. You daren't tarry here any longer, or you'll be missed. I'll work out a format with Tieg and Queron in the meantime. Be alert for a contact late in the evening. And be very, very careful.”

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear.

—I John 4:18

Rhysel returned to the royal apartments to find the queen in the solar, reading to young Prince Owain, while the boy's nurse visited with some of the queen's ladies in the window bay. Mother and son were cozily ensconced in a large wooden chair well cushioned by embroidered pillows, and both looked up as Rhysel came in. Grey-eyed Owain was the image of his Haldane father, with a shining cap of jet-black hair cut close around his face.

“Ah, there you are, Liesel,” the queen said, closing her book. “What have you brought?”

The sweet fragrance of the garden accompanied Rhysel as she came to let the queen see into the flat basket over her arm.

“Fresh-cut blossoms to grace the Queen's Grace,” Rhysel said, smiling, as she held a golden jonquil close to the queen's wheaten hair. “Your Highness asked if I could do something special with your hair for tonight. I thought I might pull the sides back into a loose braid down the back and weave in a cascade of flowers.”

“Hmmm, the king would like that, I think,” Michaela replied, selecting a pale yellow rose and inhaling deeply of its perfume. “Owain, do you think your papa would like some of these braided into Mummy's hair?”

The four-year-old sniffed critically at the bloom, then shook his head and pushed it away.

“Papa likes red ones best,” he declared, reaching for a smaller, more delicate tea rose of vibrant crimson. “Put red ones in Mummy's hair, Liesel.” He gave it an appreciative sniff and smiled wide. “Mmmm, smells nice.”

Both Michaela and Rhysel grinned at that, and the queen gave an accommodating shrug as she took the flower from her son.

“Well, that would appear to settle the question,” she said. “Apparently the men in my life prefer red roses to any other color. Perhaps it comes of being Haldanes.” She allowed herself a resigned sigh. “Ah, well. I prefer pastels, but have Agatha choose something suitable to go with
red
roses, would you? Come back when Owain's had his supper and gone to bed.”

Later, while Rhysel dressed the queen's hair, she had ample time to set her instructions in place for later in the evening. It would hardly be the leisurely and romantic leave-taking that Michaela was anticipating, but Rhysel saw no remedy for that—not if they continued to hold any hope that the king might be brought to full access of his Haldane powers on such short notice. She wished there had been opportunity to prepare Cathan as well, but he and Fulk had been closeted with the king all afternoon, down in the council chamber. At least Fulk was dining with his parents this evening, since he, too, would be riding out with the king on the morrow.

She made a last adjustment to the queen's coiffure, teasing loose two wispy tendrils at the temples, then laid aside her comb and picked up a mirror to hold for Michaela's inspection. The queen had dressed with care, in a loose-fitting night shift of ivory silk with a rose damask over-robe. She had clasped it at the throat with the Haldane brooch, borrowed back from Rhys Michael when he returned from his meetings to bathe and change. The color complemented the claret-colored roses twined in her hair and gave her a rosy glow of her own.

“It's perfect,” she said softly, smiling as she glanced at Rhysel above the mirror. “Thank you, Liesel. Now hand me those pearl drops for my ears, and I'll be ready.”

A little later, having overseen arrangements for dining in the solar, Michaela welcomed husband and brother to the rare experience of a truly private meal. Ample candlelight made of their table an island of cozy reassurance, set apart from the uncertainties of the morrow. During a simple and leisurely meal that Cathan both served and shared, the three of them were able to discuss the day's implications with far more candor than was usually possible, none of them yet aware of the measures set in motion by the queen's maid.

“Oh, my dearest darlings, this is almost like being a real family,” Michaela said softly, setting one hand on her husband's hand and the other on her brother's. “Do you know how I treasure nights like this? I can hardly remember the last time when just the three of us were able to sit down to a meal together, without Fulk or somebody else lurking about, hanging on our every word.”

Cathan snorted softly, permitting himself a wan smile. “Fulk isn't
that
bad. We could do far worse.”

Sighing, Michaela squeezed his hand and managed a brave smile. “Aye, we could—and have done, in the past, haven't we? I wish him well on the campaign. The potential replacements are all far worse.”

“Well, I'm still glad he had somewhere else to go tonight,” Rhys Michael replied, idly picking up a wine bottle and rejecting it when he saw that it was empty. “He would have wanted to serve table, if he'd been here.”

Rolling his eyes heavenward, Cathan leaned back in his chair and indulged in a heavy sigh, briefly affecting the jaded court drawl becoming common among his peers.

“The man can be
so
tiresome. But it's mainly his father's fault, of course. You'd think the council would have given up by now. We're not about to discuss plans for an insurrection when Fulk is around, even if there were any hope of
staging
an insurrection.”

“And we're not about to plot an insurrection tonight, in any case,” Rhys Michael agreed, turning his gaze on Michaela and quirking a wicked smile at her. “Actually, my dear, my intentions for this evening were of a more—personal nature.”

As he lifted her hand to nibble on her fingertips, Michaela broke into delighted giggles of mock scandal.

“What, with my brother present, sir?”

“Well, you
did
say it was a family evening,” Cathan retorted, grinning roguishly as he brought her other hand to his lips.

Where this might have led, Michaela was never to know, for any further development was curtailed by a knock at the door. As she burst into giggles anew, Rhys Michael rolled his eyes and glanced toward the door.

“Please go away,” he called.

“Sire, 'tis Liesel,” a low female voice came. “Her Grace did bid me bring her a book of poetry. Shall I simply leave it?”

Smothering a laugh, Michaela pulled her hands away and shook her head, getting to her feet.

“You two are incorrigible!” she whispered sotto voce as she headed for the door. “I
did
want to show you this book, though. The binding is a work of art. Don't worry, though. I'll send her away.”

She smoothed her skirts in an automatic gesture as she made her way across the room, glancing back at her husband and brother to blow them a kiss just before she set her hand on the latch. Liesel was waiting a little anxiously outside the door, arms clasped around a large leather-bound volume.