The Bastard Prince (59 page)

When she had turned back to the east, she bowed again, then spread her arms again, throwing back her head to whisper, “Now do we stand outside time, in a place not of earth. As our ancestors before us bade, we join together and are one. Amen. Selah. So be it.”

“So be it,” Michaela repeated, bowing her head to cross herself again.

In the silence that followed, as Rhysel turned with a soft sigh to sink to her knees opposite the queen, the sleeping Owain between them, Michaela pulled her sewing basket closer and took out a needle threaded with scarlet silk, bidding Rhysel bring the rushlight closer.

“Your father had a distinct advantage when he did this to Rhysem and his brothers,” Michaela said softly, holding the needle in the flame, glancing at the sleeping Owain. “Deryni potions to cleanse the wounds, and Deryni talent to heal them.”

Smiling, Rhysel handed Michaela the rushlight and leaned over to fetch the basin, which was partially filled with water.

“I can't help you on the healing, but it doesn't take Deryni talent to know that boiling things helps to clean them.” She plucked the Haldane brooch and the Eye of Rom from the sewing basket and slipped them into the basin. “Put your needle in, too, but leave a bit of the thread hanging out. Now draw back a little. It
does
take Deryni talents to boil water this way.”

Wide-eyed, Michaela watched as Rhysel held her hand close above the water's surface and closed her eyes. After a moment, tiny bubbles began to form along the surface of the water, deeper; then steam began to rise.

“My father taught me how to do this shortly before he died,” Rhysel finally murmured, as she took her hand away and the bubbling stopped. “It's an old Healer's trick, but it doesn't take a Healer to do it; just Deryni concentration. I later learned a variation for cleaning off magical residues, but this was just for physical cleansing. We wouldn't want to cancel out whatever the king left on these. Hand me that towel, and we'll give our young man's earlobe a good wipe before you go poking your hole.”

In the flat silence while they waited for the water to cool a little, Michaela listened to the sound of her own heart beating and the occasional, muffled sound of a guard stirring far outside. At length, Rhysel dipped a corner of the towel in the hot water and used it to clean Owain's ear, also bidding the queen to wipe off her hands. Then, while Rhysel held the boy's head steady, also keeping him asleep and free from pain, Michaela used her sterile needle to pierce her son's right earlobe. He did not stir, and there was very little blood.

“I have another earring of twisted gold wire in my jewel casket, that Rhysem used to wear before he became king,” she whispered, as she inserted the Eye of Rom in Owain's ear. “It's lighter and will be more comfortable while the ear is healing, but he's supposed to wear this one for what we're doing now.”

Rhysel nodded. “It's heavy for such a wee lad. Special occasions, until he comes of age. It's the power that's important.”

“Aye. Now we'll see about
that
.”

Together she and Rhysel shifted the sleeping Owain round so that his shoulders lay in her lap, head cradled against her stomach. Rhysel let him stir as Michaela began washing his left hand, though she kept loose controls with a hand on one bare foot.

“Mummy—why you washing my hand? Is it morning already?”

“Not yet, darling. There's something Papa asked us to do, but you must be very, very quiet. It might be a little scary, but you'll be very brave, won't you?”

“For Papa?” Owain murmured, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand, which he then offered her. “Wash other hand, too?”

“All right, we'll wash both hands,” Michaela murmured, glancing at Rhysel, who was only barely containing a smile. “Can you sit up a little better for me now? That's right. Let me put my arms around you and hug you. Mmmmm, I do love you!” she declared, kissing the top of his head.

He grinned and wriggled contentedly in her arms. “An' I love you, Mummy. What we do for Papa?”

“Well, Uncle Cathan brought us something that Papa very much wanted you to have. It's a very special present.”

“Papa's Lion,” Owain breathed, as she took it out of the ba sin, not touching the clasp, and shook off the excess water.

“It is, indeed. Soon after you were born, I asked a man to make this for your papa, to remind us of the crown Papa wore—the crown that you're going to wear.” She set the curved body of the brooch in Owain's small right hand with the gold clasp opened at right angles, cupping her own hand around his to steady brooch and clasp, glancing at Rhysel.

“Now, here's the part that's very special. You can't see the lion right now, can you?”

“No.”

“Well, something else that you can't see is a special kind of magic that Papa left you, that will help you be a proper king some day, like him.” She gently sought his left hand with hers and opened the little fingers. “I can't explain how or why right now—you'll find out when you're bigger—but I promise you that Papa wanted us to do this. You might think it's a little scary, so you must be brave, but I promise I won't hurt you. Will you be brave for Papa?”

Frowning a little, he twisted his face around slightly to look at her, grey Haldane eyes searching hers.

“Brave for Papa?” he murmured.

Before he could change his mind—or she could change hers—she braced his hand against hers and set the point of the brooch's clasp lightly against his flesh—flesh of
her
flesh. Not against the palm, as his father had done the night of his empowering, but just against the tender web of skin stretched between thumb and forefinger—and thrust the sliver of gold home.

With Rhysel controlling,
he
felt no pain, though he gasped with surprise, but the passage of the gold through her own flesh as well sent a hot chill up her entire arm as the power began to flow.

That
he felt, though Rhysel damped his ability to make any sound as energy began to shift within the circle, swirling and then focusing through the Haldane brooch transfixing the hands of mother and son. Most of it flowed into Owain, sending tendrils of potential power probing into the deepest recesses of his being, long after he ceased to be aware of any of it; but some of it cycled through the mother and then back into Owain.

And some of it, and then more of it, flowed into the mother and, finding Haldane flesh, flowed into the child she carried, beginning to quicken the heritage of his blood before ever his tiny body quickened, stirring the Haldane potential in him as well.

She felt it in herself as the power channeled through her and stirred her own Deryni blood to new potency—a tingling and a quickening—and as its wonder registered, she dared to raise her eyes to the glorious light all around her and Owain, to the gossamer forms of winged Others who moved within that light and lifted exquisite, transparent hands to touch their faces in benison.

Tears of gladness welled in her eyes as she held her son close, their hands joined by love as well as gold, and just as she thought her heart could contain no more wonder, she caught just a scarlet glimpse of another among those glorious creatures—surely her own Rhysem, come back to her for just this instant, his form radiant with the perfection of health restored and the beauty of eternity, his face shining beneath a golden crown as he pressed his fingertips lightly, tenderly to his lips, smiling as he offered her his kiss on outstretched hands.

And behind him was another, with quicksilver eyes and quicksilver hair, and a wise, knowing face that smiled, just as the light and the love overwhelmed her.

When Michaela awoke, perhaps an hour later, she wondered a little fuzzily whether she had dreamed it all. The rushlight still was burning on the little table beside the bed, and Owain was snuggled down beside her, his Papa knight loosely clasped under one arm and one thumb but recently slipped from his perfect rosy lips. She smiled and eased the toy from his grasp, leaning it against the headboard beside its companion to take up watch again, then absently smoothed a lock of black hair back from her son's face—and brushed the little hoop of twisted gold wire in his right earlobe.

“He'll be fine,” Rhysel's voice said softly from behind her, at the same time setting a hand on her shoulder to soothe her startled response as she rolled onto her back to stare. “I changed the earring—blooded the Eye of Rom and the Ring of Fire before I put them away in your jewel chest—then I cleaned up the two of you and put everything back the way it was supposed to be. It's a good thing you didn't try this on your own.”

Michaela swallowed and bunked at the Deryni woman, amazed that she could be so calm and matter-of-fact after what had happened.

“Did you—
see
anything?” she asked.

Rhysel nodded slowly. “I felt quite a lot, too. Now I know why no one's supposed to touch the subject during such a working. No harm done to any of the parties involved”—she held up a hand to stay Michaela's concern—“I was prepared. But it was—intense.” She cocked her head. “I never met Cinhil or Javan, but I'd have to say that your Rhysem probably was the finest Haldane to date, when it comes to figuring out how the Haldane power is supposed to be used. If his sons are half as good, they'll be something very special.”

“Did you—see Rhysem?” Michaela asked.

“Aye. And my grandfather, I think.” She sighed. “I wish I'd known him. Uncle Joram says he really is a saint—or at least he seems to do a lot of things that saints do. One thing is certain: he didn't just die, all those years ago.”

Michaela nodded slowly, fighting back a heavy yawn, men went ahead and indulged it.

“You'd better get some sleep,” Rhysel said softly, laying her hand gently on the queen's. “I can't explain it, but I think your own power may have increased from the spillover. I do advise rest, though. The next few days are apt to be rough. Please don't fight me.”

Fighting sleep was the last thing on Michaela's mind as she let her eyelids close. And the last thing she thought, as she drifted into sleep, was to wonder what Rhysem had done to her, from beyond the grave—or from the cathedral, it occurred to her, as she yawned again and then sank. Because Rhysem wasn't even buried yet …

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-THREE

I speak of the things which I have made touching the king.

—Psalms 45:1

When Rhysel reported the results of the queen's work to Joram, a short while later, his elation could scarcely be contained. Almost, she fancied she could hear him laughing aloud in the room with her, as she had not heard him laugh in years.

The new king confirmed in his potential
and
Michaela somehow boosted to higher ability? This
is
welcome news. I begin to think we may actually pull this off. I've never heard of such a secondary effect, but who really knows anything about the Haldane potential? Ansel and Queron and the others will be delighted
.

After giving her an update on their progress and estimated arrival time, he offered further instructions.

Just be certain that nothing prevents the queen from making the usual appearances in the next few days, and the young king with her. We wouldn't want the regents to decide, for example, that attending the funeral would be too much strain on her and the baby. On the other hand, if she seems too strong, they may decide that they don't need Cathan any longer. You've not been able to discover a clue as to what's become of him?

The official word is that he's “indisposed” Someone tried to tell us that he was simply catching up on his sleep, but I didn't like the tone when Tammaron and Manfred took him off to the first meeting of the Regency Council. I'll try to find out more in the course of tomorrow
.

Do that
, he responded.
And in the meantime, if it can be managed at all, try to give Michaela an intensive course in using what she's acquired. You know the specific skills to concentrate on
.

I'll do the best I can
, she agreed.
Tomorrow is the lying-in-state, but I don't expect they'll allow her to go to that, since they let her be there to receive the body this afternoon. Even if they did, they wouldn't let Owain go—and she wouldn't leave him. Nor would I wish her to. But the great lords will go
—
or else remain closeted in the council chamber, trying to decide what to do about Kheldour. In either case, I'll try to find out more about Cathan. It would be bitter irony if he got this far, only to perish before we can bring our plan to fruition
.

Cathan had not yet perished, though he could almost wish he had. He had guessed they might bleed him again, so was not surprised when Lior and his
Custodes
guards took him to a bleak cell in the bowels of the castle where Brother Polidorus soon appeared, armed with basin, ligature, and lancet. The guards had held him while Polidorus performed the operation, and Cathan had fought it despite the futility, sickeningly aware how his strength ebbed as the volume of his blood in the china basin grew.

Lior had stopped it short of seriously endangering him, of course, for they still needed him for a few more days at least. It was done purely to intimidate him further; their drugs would have been sufficient to keep him docile. But the medication Polidorus gave him afterward, though enough to blur his vision and render him incapable of standing unassisted, was not enough to force him into the mercy of sleep, where he could forget his plight for a few hours; and merely dozing brought nightmares. At midnight, left alone in only shirt and breeches, his bandaged arm still smarting, he lay awake by choice in his close prison cell, staring at the barrel-vaulted ceiling and praying for deliverance, one bare ankle shackled to an iron ring in the wall at the foot of the wooden bedstead.