The Bastard Prince (32 page)

The beast bolted at this new outrage, continuing to buck and twist as it ran. Miklos' power flared erratically as he tried gamely to twist free, arms vainly upflung to protect his head, but he went limp after only a few strides. The power died away even as Hombard galloped in to seize the animal's reins and wrench it to a halt.

Except that Hombard no longer looked like Hombard. The pale eyes now were dark, the face of an age with Miklos, the hair escaping from its soldier's knot a rich chestnut, untouched by grey. Fury animated every line of the young man's body as he leaned down far enough to hook a gloved hand in Miklos' belt and drag him up across his saddle, and the look he cast Rhys Michael was murderous.

Sudrey caught Rhys Michael's good arm and raised it toward Miklos' rescuer with one of hers, power still bright around her.

“Help me warn him off, Sire,” she gasped, summoning the spell and desperately willing him to augment her failing strength. “Quick, before your men reach us.”

Obedient, Rhys Michael channeled a surge of energy into her directing. Fire lanced forth to score the earth before the burdened rider, and with a look of fury he turned and galloped off toward his own lines, Miklos' limp form before him. Rhun and Manfred and a party of mounted archers were approaching fast, galloping down the slope with arrows nocked to the archers' bows, and Sudrey fell back exhausted against the king's breast, encircled by his arms.

“We have not much time,” she murmured. “Listen carefully. Say that it was my power that thwarted Miklos, but I drew upon your life-force to fuel it. I was able to do this because you are a Haldane, divinely appointed to rule Gwynedd. Find a way to suggest that the power within you has nothing to do with Deryni; it comes of God. Do not let my death be in vain.”

“No! You aren't going to die!”

“Sire, I am wounded in ways you cannot see,” she replied, grimacing. “Far better that I die now, in the manner of my own choosing, rather than face what your great lords might inflict upon me, for having sufficient power to defeat a mage of Miklos' stature. Promise you will not let them burn me.”

“I promise,” Rhys Michael whispered, putting from mind the image of Dimitri's dead body burning in the yard at Saint Cassian's. “But don't go. Don't give up. I can protect you.”

She closed her eyes against a twinge of pain, then looked up at him again, as the hoofbeats thundered nearer.

“I make no judgment, Sire, but you will be fortunate if you can protect yourself. God be with you. Pray for me.”

This time, when she closed her eyes, she did not open them again. There was one further, fluttering breath—and then, no more. As he laid his head against her still breast, knowing he would hear no heartbeat, his own men reached him.

“What the devil happened?” Rhun demanded, pulling up beside him and jumping down from his horse, as the mounted archers swept past and formed a line between them and the Torenthi line, where a party of rangers had broken and were spurring to meet Hombard.

Rhys Michael looked up dully, Sudrey's body still hugged to his chest.

“I think they were after Sudrey from the start,” he murmured. “Miklos said she had betrayed her country and her race—and then he and the other man attacked her with magic.”

“Are you saying that Hombard was Deryni, too?” Manfred said, jumping down to join Rhun. “But that's impossible. We tested him.”

“I don't think it was the same man,” Rhys Michael said uncertainly, as he started to ease her body to the ground. “His face changed, right at the end. He somehow looked familiar. She stood up to both of them, though, and I think she killed Miklos. The other man—aiie!”

He gasped as he jostled his injured hand while trying to put her down. He had managed not to move it much during the last little while, but now, as the rush of combat slowly faded, the pain set up a throbbing that coursed all the way to his elbow.

“Where are you hurt?” Rhun asked, as Manfred seized the injured right arm and turned it from the elbow, searching for signs of injury.

Rhys Michael sucked in his breath as Manfred prodded around a jagged gash in the leather gauntlet.

“Careful!” he snapped. “One of the horses stamped his great, bloody hoof down on the back of my hand, when I was on the ground. I'm sure there must be bones broken.”

“Try to move your fingers,” Manfred ordered.

Rhys Michael tried, but even the effort of trying made him nauseated from the pain. Lifting the trembling hand for closer inspection, he could see that blood and dirt crusted the gash in the glove and the wound inside, which looked to go well into sinews and bone. He fought down a wave of light-headedness as he whispered, “Damn!”

“Borg, come and take a look at this,” Manfred called over his shoulder to one of the archers.

But Rhun was already pulling his horse around to mount again, glancing apprehensively toward the Torenthi line, which had opened to receive the fleeing Hombard and his burden.

“No time for that now,” he said. “Mount up! We may have company very shortly, if we don't get out of here. Borg, give the king your horse, then lift Lady Sudrey's body up to Lord Manfred. Move!”

As Manfred helped Rhys Michael to his feet, the archer called Borg brought his horse over and gave Rhys Michael a leg up. Vaulting up into the saddle without using his right hand was difficult, and the hand throbbed with renewed pain when the archer jarred it in passing the reins to his good hand. He tried not to think about the hand as they moved out, instead fixing his gaze on the body of Sudrey, now cradled in Manfred's arms in the saddle before him. The pain accompanied him all the way back to the Gwynedd line and beyond.

Back in Culliecairn, Marek of Festil watched without expression as three of the patriarch's bearded and black-robed priests gently removed the last of Miklos' harness, starting to wash his body and prepare it for a lying-in-state later that night in the castle's chapel. The Healer Cosim stood at his elbow, but there had been nothing he could do for Miklos; it was not alone the injuries inflicted by his horse that had killed the Torenthi prince.

Marek had not wanted to believe that. Assisted by Cosim, he himself had conducted a Death-Reading on his dead cousin, before allowing the priests to take charge of the body. Afterward, he had erased what he read. Both he and the Healer now knew that magic had been the principal cause of Miklos' death—and that the power for the spell had come not from the Deryni Sudrey but from Rhys Michael Haldane.

“My worst nightmare, Cosim,” Marek murmured, when he had drawn the Healer out of the little room where Miklos lay. “No, the very worst would be to fall to the Haldane myself—or even worse than that, for my son to perish as well. But for Miklos to fall—how could the Haldane do this? How is this possible?”

Cosim cocked a cynical eyebrow. “The allegations of Haldane power are hardly new, my lord—though, I confess, I thought them unlikely to be true, given the other tales we have heard these past six years of the impotence of this Haldane before his ministers of state.”

“Well, it wasn't Cousin Sudrey who did that to Miklos,” Marek muttered. “I'm still not certain how it happened. I
know
Miklos could have taken the Haldane in a proper duel arcane—or
I
could have done. This was meant to be a testing of the waters—though we were prepared to ambush him if that opportunity presented itself. Sudrey was the real target. Miklos had been obsessed with her defection since he found out about it at Javan Haldane's coronation. And I'd
swear
that this Rhys Haldane had no powers at that time—not even shields—though there was certainly something going on with his brother.”

“Perhaps this odd Haldane power is somehow vested in Gwynedd's crown,” Cosim ventured, after a short pause. “Perhaps that is why you detected nothing at the coronation, save in Javan.”

Marek shrugged. “I was but young then, and we never managed to make physical contact with either Haldane brother. But how can the Haldane power be that strong? It did not save Javan Haldane from his great lords' treachery, and it has not enabled Rhys Haldane to be his own man, these six years of his reign.”

“Yet it enabled him to kill my prince today,” Cosim murmured.

Marek hung his head. “I must ask you not to reveal that, Cosim.”

“I do not know how you can keep it a secret,” the Healer replied, “or why you would wish to do so. Deryni who witnessed what took place, even from afar, are well aware that magic was afoot.”

“Magic—aye. But they must believe it was Sudrey's magic that killed Miklos—an unfortunate accident. Surely his injuries would have killed him, if magic had not.”

“Perhaps. But why should you wish them to believe this? Why perpetuate this uncertainty?”

“Because I do not wish his men to seek vengeance for his death at this time, riding out to fight a battle that was never intended to take place and that cannot be won under the present circumstances.” Marek glanced down at his hands, then back at the Healer.

“Cosim, I hesitate to ask, but I find myself obliged to seek your further assistance. Those who can, will Truth-Read me as I speak to them.”

Cosim turned his dark gaze on the younger man, searching the dark eyes. “Are you asking me to adjust your memory, my lord, so that your lies go undetected?”

“I am asking you to adjust my memory so that I can present a half truth without danger of contradiction—that it was not magic that killed Miklos. I would never attempt to claim that magic was not used. But left with the sad yet unprovocative conclusion that his death was largely due to misadventure, his men hopefully will withdraw in good order to fight another day—and for me.”

Slowly Cosim nodded “I understand what you are saying, my lord,” he murmured “Further, I believe my lord Miklos would have agreed.” He glanced around to ensure that they were alone, then returned his gaze to Marek.

“I will set a fatigue-banishing spell as well, my lord,” he murmured, lifting one hand to Marek's forehead. “Open to me …”

A quarter hour later, his energies somewhat restored by the Healer's ministrations, Marek was facing the decidedly uncomfortable duty of confirming the details of Miklos' death to his officers. In the back of his mind was the knowledge that Cosim wished to see him again after the court—the reason escaped him for the moment—but for now, Marek was content to leave the Healer alone with his grief, standing down among Miklos' other men.

He had summoned them to gather in the castle's great hall, but he did not presume to sit in the chair of state that stood at the center of the dais. Miklos had held court from there in the more carefree days while they waited for the Haldane response, and now the patriarch himself stood beside the chair, glaring at Marek from beneath his black stovepipe headdress and veil.

Summoning Valentin to his side—who grieved, too, for the death of the young man he had loved like a son—Marek moved in front of the chair, though far enough in front to make it clear he had no intention of usurping the dead man's place. Not for the first time, he was glad he had sent Charis and the baby back to Tolan some days earlier; he did not relish telling his wife of her brother's death.

And telling King Arion was an even more daunting prospect. Though the late King Nimur, Arion's father, had given sanctuary to the infant son of Imre and Ariella of Festil following the Haldane Restoration, Arion's support for his exiled cousin's cause had never been more than lukewarm, especially since his becoming king ten years ago. Indeed, without Prince Miklos' friendship and patronage, Marek might never have survived to adulthood. Much less could he have mounted this expedition—which, unfortunately, had gone so badly awry.

Marek suspected that his sufferance by the Torenthi Royal House was about to become even more precarious than it had been all his young life. While neither illegitimacy nor incest were Marek's fault, the taint might only be truly removed by success—by taking back the crown his parents had borne. With Miklos gone, that now was not likely to occur for some time. And it would never occur if Marek allowed himself to be stampeded into action prematurely.

“Gentlemen, you will have heard many rumors regarding the circumstances of the prince's death,” Marek said to the assembled men, hardly daring to lift his eyes to them. “That incidental mishap should have cost my cousin his life is the supreme irony, when so much was at stake. It was not magic that killed him.”

“Yet magic was used,” one of the captains pointed out. “And it was you who instigated it, my lord.”

“Prince Miklos instigated it against the traitor, Sudrey of Rhorau,” Marek said. “And though she responded in kind, this was not unexpected. What
was
unexpected was the Haldane's response—though we have long believed that the Haldanes do have access to a kind of power akin to our Deryni powers. Unfortunately, I still am not certain how much of the power was Sudrey's and how much was the Haldane's. The question is academic, since ultimately it was my cousin's physical injuries that killed him, but the Haldane factor will bear further investigation.”

“Not in conjunction with
this
campaign,” another of the captains said. “It has already cost us our prince.”

“I greatly regret that,” Marek began.

“As we do, my lord,” another said. “But we are not now prepared to follow you farther into Gwynedd. While our prince lived, we were obliged to go where he commanded. Our fealty returns now to the king his brother, who may not agree that Torenthi troops should lend their aid to your cause.”

Marek bowed his head.

“I accept the reprimand you have not spoken, my lord,” he murmured. “I count myself at least partially to blame for the death of Prince Miklos and remind you that he was my cousin and brother to my wife, as well as being brother to King Arion. I do not look forward to answering to either of these worthies when I must tell them of his death.