The Bastard Prince (16 page)

Niallan gave a resigned sigh and bowed his head on one hand, rubbing at his eyes.

“So, if we do send him back controlled, how effective do you think he'll be?”

“Not very, and not for long, but he might have time and opportunity to eliminate at least a few of the opposition,” Joram said. “Miklos will be the biggest limiting factor in that regard. The nature of the contact link he's forged with Dimitri ensures that he'll spot our tampering, if Dimitri makes the expected contact. So we can't allow that. And if Dimitri
doesn't
make the contact, Miklos eventually will become suspicious and try to force it—which he's quite capable of doing. Either way, Dimitri's a dead man.”

“What if the great lords get suspicious first?” Ansel asked.

Joram shrugged. “A lot depends on the circumstances, but the end result is pretty much the same. Since they know what he is, they're sure to dose him with
merasha
before the questioning goes very far. Given the zeal of
Custodes
inquisitors, they'll probably employ torture if he doesn't break fairly quickly—which he won't. His final defense is set beyond a very high pain threshold. I don't much care whether he tells about working for Torenth, so long as he dies before revealing that he's also become a triple agent.”

“I gather he has a death-trigger set,” Dom Rickart said.

Joram nodded. “Quite a powerful one. It's a mark of his devotion to Miklos that he willingly allowed it to be set, so there could be no possibility of him betraying Miklos under pressure. Fortunately, with his powers temporarily suspended, it's possible for Jesse to—adjust it.”

“Just like that?” Ansel said indignantly. “A nice, clean death-trigger? You mean that after all the deaths he's caused, he just gets to suicide out?”

“He'll still be dead,” Dom Rickart pointed out, faintly disapproving. “And suicide is hardly a clean way out, if you accept the teachings of the Church on taking one's own life.”

Bishop Niallan waggled a hand in a yes-and-no gesture. “Actually, we may be saving him from that, Rickart. It can be argued that since he didn't agree to the changed terms we're imposing, his death won't technically be suicide anymore. Call it an indirect execution, if you prefer. Personally, I would as soon send his unrepentant soul straight to hell, but my office as a priest forbids indulgence in vengeance. I salve my conscience with the knowledge that at least he's going to have a chance to make some restitution before he dies—even if he's forced to do it.”

A little taken aback at the vehemence of Niallan's response, Ansel sat back in his chair as Rickart raised an eyebrow and asked Joram, “How long are we talking about, then? How long do you think he'll have?”

Joram folded his arms across his chest with weary resignation.

“He's to contact Miklos again when the Haldane levies are about two days' ride out of Culliecairn—say, in about a week. That's assuming, of course, that Miklos doesn't decide he needs to initiate a contact sooner, for some reason. Keep in mind, though, that it takes a great deal more energy if the contact isn't expected and assisted, especially across such a distance. Naturally, such a contact becomes increasingly feasible, the closer together they get.”

“Having said that,” Queron interjected, speaking up for the first time, “the chances are that Miklos
won't
attempt a contact for the first four or five days. With the kind of power outlay that's required, why bother, when the royal forces can't have done anything to threaten Miklos anyway? And if Dimitri tries to carry out his orders from Miklos and fails, what could Miklos do about it? Meanwhile, Dimitri can do a lot for
us.
”

Niallan nodded reluctantly. “I agree with your logic. You may well be right. But I'm still not happy about turning him loose totally without supervision and without the king knowing. So much could go wrong.”

“Nothing can be done about the lack of supervision, if we're going to try this,” Joram said, “but we'll see what we can do about alerting the king. It will have to be through Rhysel, and she may not have an opportunity to pass on the information, but it's worth a try.”

“I'll see to it,” Tieg said, rising.

Joram nodded. “Be as quick as you can, then. The longer we keep Dimitri here, the greater the danger that he'll have been missed.”

The dawning light that morning was fitful, for rain had moved in over Rhemuth during the night. The steady drumming of it against the leaded window glass woke Rhys Michael just as Cathan was pushing back the heavy curtains covering the window bay, but the absence of proper daylight made him burrow back under the sleeping furs for a few seconds, seeking warmth nearer Michaela, before he remembered what had happened the night before.

He sat up with a start, causing Cathan to turn to him in question and Michaela to sigh sleepily in protest. Instinctively he reached out a tendril of thought to brush her mind, though he kept his shields close. Her startled query shifted almost immediately to a tender feather-brush of response that felt almost like butterflies in his mind, so intimate as to be almost physical, echoed by her hands as she snuggled closer under the sleeping furs. Glancing back at Cathan, Rhys Michael could only manage a sheepish grin.

“Oh, it's you,” he murmured, affecting nonchalance as he partially reclined back onto the pillows. “Aren't you a bit early?”

“The rain makes it darker than it should be,” Cathan said cheerily, coming closer to lay a robe across the foot of the royal bed. “Your squires are drawing a bath in your dressing room—and I'll remind you that you aren't likely to get another while we're on the march—but I think I can stall them for a little while, if you—ah—aren't quite ready to get up yet. I should point out, however, that you're both expected at Mass in about an hour, and Archbishop Hubert will be very cross if you're late.”

He grinned as he handed over a cup of morning ale, deliberately touching his hand to the king's, and the brief contact enabled Rhys Michael to confirm from Cathan that, indeed, he had not dreamed the night before.

Laughing delightedly, Rhys Michael waved Cathan out of the room with a shooing motion and set the ale aside, then turned to take Michaela in his arms, soon losing himself in the sweet bliss of their joining. Almost from the beginning, there had been an urgency to their lovemaking that went beyond the mere physical, knowing that each time might be the last.

Now that urgency was heightened by the knowledge that he soon would be riding into a much more tangible and immediate danger than had been their constant companion for the last six years. Though they pleasured one another gently this morning, lest her pregnancy be endangered, their passion carried a new poignancy that left Michaela softly weeping in his arms when they were spent. Only a determination not to let him leave with this impression enabled her to summon up a tremulous smile as he drew apart from her at last, in response to Fulk's knock at the door, to shrug into the robe Cathan had left him and pad off to his bath.

Somehow, Michaela managed to keep further tears at bay as she set about her own ablutions and allowed her ladies to help her dress. She found their fussing and endless chatter even more irritating than usual, although Lirin, the youngest of them, was also a trifle subdued this morning, perhaps because her Richard also was set to ride out with the king. Lady Estellan's husband was going, too, but they had been married for more than thirty years and had not shared a bed for decades.

“Your Highness, you're very pale this morning,” Estellan said, holding first one gown, then another near her face, though trying to judge color by the grey morning light and candles was difficult. “I thought you were through with the morning sickness.”

“I'm fine, Estellan. Just a little tired.”

“And missing the king already, I'll warrant. Well, you just concentrate on bringing that bairn to term. The king will do what he must, and God willing, they'll all come home safe.”

To counter the grey of the morning and offset her pallor, Estellan brought her a loose-fitting gown of deep rose silk, with a wide border of interlaced golden lions chasing one another around the hem and trailing sleeves. It pleased Michaela well enough as she pulled it on over her shift—the gown was one of her favorites, and Rhysem's—but not until Rhysel came to do her hair could she begin to feel the grey lethargy lift from her mood.

“Oh,
there
you are,” Estellan said, as Rhysel approached with her basket of combs and brushes and pins and bobbed a quick curtsey. “She's looking a little peaked this morning, but the hair must be formal. The right veil will give her some color, I think. She's to wear her State Gown.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Making a deeper reverence to the queen, Rhysel set her basket on the dressing table and began brushing the tangles from the long, wheaten hair. After seeing Joram and Tieg safely on their way the night before, she had come back to Michaela to check on the king. Dead asleep, the newly empowered Rhys Michael had not stirred, but Michaela had greeted her like a sister, clinging to her for a long moment while she simply shook in after-reaction.

After, Rhysel had helped the queen ready for bed, then soothed her into dreamless sleep before returning to the sparse garret chamber she shared with another maid. She, too, had slept for a while after that—until Tieg's message roused her out of sleep and left her staring at the ceiling for what remained of the night.

“Pretend to be preoccupied while I braid up your hair,” Rhysel whispered, as she divided off three thick sections with an ivory comb. “Whatever you do, don't react.”

The officious Lady Estellan had disappeared momentarily, presumably to fetch the crown and a suitable veil, and Lirin and Lady Nieve were out of earshot, brushing up a drab-colored cloak by the wan light of day, over in the window bay, but Rhysel still shifted to mind-speech.

There's been a new development—potentially, a very good one. You must pass this on to the king, if you possibly can
.

As her nimble fingers quickly plaited a thick braid to pin at the back of the queen's head, she silently imparted what portion of the news Tieg had instructed her to pass on. Rhysel had the whole of it, but too many details could only alarm Michaela and make her role that much more difficult to play, at least until she settled into her newly regained powers, such as they were. Michaela received the news of Dimitri's capture with amazement and a growing flare of hope, a little of it lending a new light to her eyes, though no sign of it showed in her expression.

Now make some critical comment about the way I've done your hair
, Rhysel sent silently, as Estellan returned with the crown and a rosy handful of gossamer veil.
We don't want the dragon lady wondering why you suddenly look much perkier than when I first came in
.

Michaela sighed and picked up a hand mirror to inspect Rhysel's work.

“I wish we could leave at least part of it down,” she said, smoothing a side strand for Rhysel to pin. “The king likes to see it loose.”

“Queens do
not
wear their hair loose in public,” Estellan said, handing Rhysel the veil with a sniff of disapproval. “Here, cover her Grace's hair with this before we put on the crown. It will give her some decent color.”

“Yes, my lady,” Rhysel murmured dutifully. The veil was a rose silk shot with gold, and actually did suit Michaela's coloring very well, but as Estellan momentarily turned her back to check on progress in the window bay, the queen stuck out her tongue, in a rare show of pent-up exasperation.

The old cow!
came her spirited expletive, fortunately only caught by Rhysel.

Biting back a smile, Rhysel arranged the veil close around Michaela's face, with part of it cascading back from the crown of her head, then set the crown in place—leaves and crosses intertwined and set with rubies like the king's. As Rhysel held up the mirror so the queen could get a better view, Estellan returned with Lady Nieve, bearing a grey wool cloak lined and hooded with grey rabbit.

“I'm afraid it's still raining, your Highness,” Nieve said, as the queen rose and let herself be helped on with the cloak. “A pity to cover that lovely gown, but on a day like this—Never mind, though. You look beautiful. We'd best go now. Mustn't keep the archbishop waiting.”

“Thank you, Liesel,” Michaela murmured, as she turned to go, knowing Rhysel would understand that her thanks were not only for the service just performed with the royal tresses. She wished she could send her thanks directly into Rhysel's mind, but she seemed to require physical contact for that. Perhaps, in time, she would learn how to extend her strength.

But meanwhile, what she
could
do had enabled Rhysel to pass on the news about Dimitri in safety, and she knew that she could pass it on to Rhysem in the same way, without anyone else being aware. That knowledge gave her hope that her husband's plight might not be nearly as desperate as they both had feared, for Dimitri's intended presence on the expedition to Eastmarch had been a source of some anxiety the previous afternoon. She hoped he would be greatly relieved to learn that Dimitri had been neutralized.

The bells were ringing for Terce as she went into the solar, where Rhys Michael also had just emerged. He was accoutred for his journey, in supple scarlet riding leathers under a tough, metal-studded scarlet jazerant, with scarlet gauntlets stuck into his white belt and the Haldane sword hanging at his side. The State Crown was on his head, and golden spurs were on his heels. He had left the Ring of Fire in Michaela's keeping earlier, for it was state regalia not suitable for the field, but the Eye of Rom was in his ear and his Haldane signet on his hand. He came to kiss her when she came out, then led her from the solar preceded by Cathan and Fulk, both clad in grey but armored much the same as he, with the badge of his service bold on their sleeves.