The Bastard Prince (14 page)

“Please, help me,” he whispered, slowly collapsing over his clasped hands. “Help me, whoever you are. Help me to See, for the sake of my Crown and my kingdom!”

As he huddled there in a miserable ball of hopelessness, shaking his head in denial at his seeming impotence, he felt the cool sleekness of the Haldane brooch hard at his throat. Suddenly something Joram had said earlier came clear as crystal in his mind:
The sacrifice of blood … the test of courage …

In that instant he knew what he must do. Reason shrank from the performing of it, but his fingers were already fumbling at the clasp of the brooch, easing the sleek length of shining metal pin from the throat of his tunic, testing the sharpness of it against a questing thumb.

“Sire?” came Joram's tentative query from somewhere far away.

He shook his head emphatically, shrinking away from the other's touch, opening the clasp wide so he could get a firm grip around the brooch itself as he poised the point of the sharp metal pin against the palm of his left hand.

“Don't touch me!” he whispered. “
I have to do this!
”

He felt the pulse pounding in his ears and the surge of hopefulness welling up within him. Merely mortal flesh shrank from the certainty of the pain to come, but he offered up his fear in a heartfelt entreaty to Those who watched, of whose presence he had no doubt; to that Other who he prayed would be his salvation; and to Him in Whose service he had been anointed as king. Unlike his father or his brother Javan, he had never considered himself particularly religious, but he sensed the fitness of some formal seal on what he now did.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” he whispered, pouring all his will and longing into the invocation. “Not my will but Thine be—
done
!”

He jammed the clasp home on the final word, a part of him detached and almost surprised at how hard it was to force such a slender sliver of metal between bones and sinews.

And the pain of it—a blinding, burning agony centered in his palm but racing up his arm to lance into his brain in an explosion of white-hot light. The mass of the brooch itself was like molten metal in his hand, but far worse was the raging inferno that kindled in his head.

The fire illuminated old, long-buried memories—standing fearlessly before his father and draining another cup, his father's hands laid upon his head as power came surging through in a fountaining of light and heat, stirring the power and setting its access in place, then reimposing Blindness, setting constraints that should have loosed six years ago and more, when Javan died …

But besides his father's hands in memory, other hands suddenly were on his head here and now, and they were not Joram's hands, or Tieg's. He could feel the presence behind the hands pushing, probing, insisting, entreating, but his own defenses surged up in rebellion. He sensed the benign intent of that Other and knew he must not resist, but he could not seem to summon up the will to yield. In desperation, he jammed the brooch harder against his palm and gave a twist, shifting the impaling shaft of gold between the bones of his hand.

The new pain brought his intention abruptly and sharply to a focus, blossoming out like a flower of light, pushing back his shields, baring his soul to that Other who waited. As he felt the weight of ghost-hands upon his head, light exploded behind his eyelids with a white-hot brilliance, and his brief awareness of illumination faded smoothly into oblivion.

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

Thanks be to God for His unspeakable gift.

—II Corinthians 9:15

Joram briefly had glimpsed that other presence in their circle and knew that Tieg had seen it, too, by the startled look on his face. But as the king gave a little moan and collapsed onto his side, twitching alarmingly, Joram relegated any personal dismay to that deeply guarded inner place reserved for things he did not understand or entirely approve of. He doubted whether Tieg had recognized the figure as his Grandfather Camber, Joram's father, but the boy would surely ask about it later. Much to Joram's dismay, “Saint” Camber had acquired a disconcerting tendency to make unexpected appearances during magical workings, at least for Haldanes. Whether this betokened merely an ongoing interest in that royal House's well-being or was sign of more far-reaching intent, Joram had no idea; but with the king's life hanging in the balance, this was not the time or place to debate the issue, even with himself.

“Don't touch him!” he ordered, as Tieg started to go to the stricken king. “Let it run its course!”

Tieg drew back, though obedience clearly was at odds with the Healer's instincts urging him forward. Rhysel had gone to the queen as Rhys Michael collapsed, preventing her intervention, and glanced at her uncle in query as the king's movement ceased and Joram finally dropped to his knees beside him.

“All right, it's done,” he murmured, darting a glance of summons at Tieg as he rolled the king onto his back. “I think he'll be all right. This follows the same pattern as other Haldane empowerings. Rhysel, please close down the circle while we see how he is. Your Highness, you'll help most if you don't interfere.”

White-faced, Michaela nodded and sank to her knees where she stood, treeing Rhysel to take up the sword and set about closing the circle. Tieg had already come to crouch at the king's head, setting his candle aside to lay both hands across the pale forehead.

After a moment, he turned his attention to Rhys Michael's left hand, grimacing as the length of gold protruding from its back briefly snagged against a fold of scarlet tunic. Turning the hand palm-up, he gently unbent the fingers still clasped around the heavy enameled brooch, then carefully drew it free. Two small, almost bloodless puncture wounds remained, in the palm and on the back of the hand.

“That can't have been easy, on several counts,” Tieg said as he handed off the brooch to Joram. “Hands are tough, and very sensitive to pain. At least what he did seems to have accomplished what was necessary. Were you expecting this?”

Joram shook his head. “Not this, precisely,” he said, “but it was clear very quickly that something more was going to be necessary to focus him. He obviously figured out what it was.”

Shaking his head, Tieg clasped the wounded hand in one of his own, fingers covering the two small punctures. When he released it, after a few seconds of concentration, both wounds had disappeared.

“How long will he be unconscious?” Joram asked, as the young Healer shifted his attention back to the king's head.

“Hard to tell. And when he does come around, all he's going to want to do is sleep. We'd better get him into bed. I do want to see him stirring before we leave, though.”

“But he does have full powers?” Joram asked, as Tieg slid an arm under the royal shoulders to hit him to a sitting position.

“Well, I don't know how full is full, in the case of a Haldane, but there's certainly a lot more there than there was before.”

“And could you block it, if you had to?” Joram persisted.

Tieg shot him an incredulous look. “If you're asking whether he feels like one of us, the answer is yes. And I can sense the triggerpoint. You don't really want me to touch it, though, do you?”

“Good God, no. I'm just trying to figure out how this all works. Let me give you a hand with him.”

Together they pulled the unconscious king to his feet, an anxious Michaela also rising, though she did not try to interfere. Behind them, Rhysel had closed the circle and was briskly winding up the length of white wool that had delineated its boundaries. Rhys Michael began to revive as they manhandled him toward the bed, legs moving jerkily at first, then starting to support a little of his weight as he tried to lift his head and look around.

“You're going to be fine, Sire,” Tieg reassured him. “Don't try to exert yourself. We're going to put you to bed now.”

They braced him against the edge of the bed so they could begin undressing him, letting Michaela help. He was an almost dead-weight at first, but he seemed to be aware of his surroundings by the time they drew the sleeping furs up around his chest. Michaela had crawled up onto the other side of the bed and was sitting cross-legged beside him, watching fearfully as her husband's eyes scanned around him and gradually began to register reason.

“I know you must be very tired, Sire,” Joram said, as the king's bleary gaze met his. “That's completely to be expected. The best thing you can do now is sleep. There will be a lot of demands on you tomorrow and in the days to come, and you'll want to tread slowly and cautiously as you explore the limits of your power.”

Rhys Michael managed a weak nod and reached out to take Michaela's hand. She was smiling and crying, both at the same time.

“Mika, it worked,” he whispered.

“Yes, my darling.”

“Why did I fight this? How could anyone
not
want it?”

“What you do
not
want,” Joram said grimly, “is any extra scrutiny. Unfortunately, I can't stay around to help you ease into wisdom on how to use your powers. I can only beg you to go slowly and be very, very careful, until you can find ways to shift the balance safely. The great lords did not achieve their positions of influence overnight, and you aren't going to get rid of them instantly, either. If all of them were to disappear right now, you wouldn't have the experienced support you'll need to reign effectively—especially if Eastmarch should turn into a full-blown war, God forbid. That support can be gathered, but not all at once.

“For now, your primary concern is to meet the challenge of Miklos of Torenth and stay alive. Remember that you're still mortal. Magic you may have, but swords and arrows, poison—they can all still kill you, if you aren't careful.”

“I'll remember,” Rhys Michael murmured, earnest resolution in his eyes. “Thank you, Father Joram—and Tieg. And please—thank that other man who was in the circle with us, there at the end. I'm not sure I could have done it, if it hadn't been for him.”

Joram closed his eyes briefly, knowing he had not heard the last of this, then nodded. “We'd better go,” he murmured, glancing at Tieg. “We don't want to press our luck—or yours. I wish there were time to establish a contact link for future communication, but you're in no condition right now. Later, perhaps, after you've returned. Meanwhile, Rhysel will continue to be your go-between. God keep you, Sire—and your Highness. You'd both best sleep now.”

As he and Tieg slipped out of the room, Rhysel following, Michaela snuggled down to lay her head against her husband's shoulder. He smiled as he let his arm encircle her, reaching out drowsily with a tendril of thought to gently brush her mind. To his pleased surprise, he felt the feather-brush of her response in kind, fragile but exquisite. It was thus that he allowed himself to drift into sleep, enwrapped in her love and secure in the expectation that, at last, he had a weapon to use against his enemies.

One of those enemies even then was prowling the darkness not far away, bound on an errand for other masters besides those to whom he answered in the castle. Unseen, the Deryni Dimitri made his way along a dim-lit range of vaulted cellars, silent as a wisp of fog. Torches burned here and there along the stone-flagged corridor, but the pools of light they cast were far apart, leaving wide areas of darkness between.

The alcove Dimitri sought was well screened by one of these patches of darkness, and here he hid himself to wait. Very shortly his intended victim came sauntering along the corridor as expected—a bored and gullible young guard named Iosif, who had served Dimitri's purposes before.

He was bigger than Dimitri, and much younger, full-featured and powerfully built, with a mop of curly black hair above the scarlet surcoat that covered body armor of boiled leather. He was armed with short sword and dagger. One big hand bore a torch aloft, and the other swung a large ring of keys. Though his mere size would have made him a formidable opponent, Dimitri had no intention of ever letting their relationship become adversarial on any level.

Poised to make his move, he waited until the young man had come just abreast of the alcove, then reached out one hand to seize the man's nearer wrist, at once securing control and drawing him into the alcove, his free hand catching up the ring of keys before they could fall. His victim's eyes had closed at Dimitri's touch, and he offered no resistance as his torch hand slowly sank.

“Good evening, Iosif,” Dimitri whispered, smiling slightly as he rescued the torch and snuffed it against the wall. “You do not remember me, but I promise you shall remember your reward, if you survive this night's work. Sit and be at ease now. I must reach very far tonight.”

Oblivious to his mortal danger, the younger man sank at once to a sitting position against the wall, booted legs splayed wide to brace himself, head lolling against the rough stone at his back, big hands lying open and motionless beside his leather-clad thighs. His captor bent to set keys and torch within easy reach to either side, then folded to sit cross-legged between the younger man's knees. Drawing a deep breath then, Dimitri leaned slightly forward and reached up to lay hands on either side of the curly head, fingers slipping through the thick hair and thumbs coming to rest on the temples.

“You cannot resist me,” he whispered, dark gaze fixing on the blur of his victim's closed eyes. “I regret that it may be necessary to hurt you, but I shall try to be brief. Look at me, Iosif. Open your eyes … and now open your soul …”

The young man's breath caught in a little gasp, but he obeyed. The Deryni's thumbs tightened. Ignoring the brief flash of dread in his subject's eyes, Dimitri at once breached the puny human defenses, quelling the stifled moan that passed the other's lips as he forced the pathways open wide and pushed deep into the other's mind, to the very core of life-force. He could taste the pain he caused as he began to pull the power to drive his intent, but he balanced his speed to a level that was safe enough, if less than comfortable. If he had to draw too deeply or for too long, true damage would be done, but that was a calculated part of the risk—Iosif's risk.