The Bastard Prince (31 page)

“So you say,” the old captain muttered.

Smiling indulgently, Marek patted his shoulder for the older man to come closer, then leaned back against him and settled with the candle clasped between his hands as Valentin rested both hands on his shoulders. The Healer had set the second candle between Hombard's hands and now came around to crouch between the two chairs, his left hand clasped around Hombard's. After passing his right hand over the candle to conjure flame, he clasped it around Marek's.

“Have you any questions, my lord, before I take you down?” the Healer asked, himself now the bridge between the two men.

Marek drew a deep breath and fixed his gaze on the candle flame in Hombard's hands, visibly relaxing as he exhaled.

“I'm ready,” he murmured.

Standing before them, Miklos watched with detached interest as his cousin sank deep into trance at the Healer's bidding, noting as the signs of control deepened, the eyelids fluttered over the dark eyes, and Valentin eventually stepped back.

“Hand … to mind,” Cosim breathed, himself very deep in trancing as he called forth the spell. “Mind … to flame. Bring forth the light … and then bring forth the glamour …”

Almost immediately, fire flared on Marek's candle, its light gilding the placid planes of his face—which then began to waver and change. Lines sank across the youthful brow, along jowls suddenly less firm; grey began to thread through hair no longer so dark or so glossy. Within seconds, two Hombards sat entranced before Miklos and the Healer Cosim.

A moment to orient himself, and Cosim raised his head to glance back at Miklos.

“Sufficient, my lord?” he murmured.

Miklos surveyed the two now-identical men seated before him and slowly nodded, smiling. “Well done, Master Cosim. Do release him now.”

A flick of power, and Marek was stirring, drawing a deep breath and blinking several times as control was restored. His eyes, now gone from dark to blue, darted to the candle still burning between his clasped hands, and he blew it out with a grin as he glanced up at Miklos, also reaching across to pinch out Hombard's.

“Satisfactory?” he asked. The voice was several tones lower than Marek's usual light tenor.

Miklos chuckled and touched the Healer on the shoulder in congratulation. “
Very
well done, Master Cosim. Perhaps you and Valentin would take the real Lord Hombard off to a well-earned bed. Put Marek's cloak on him and pull up the hood. I would as soon it not become general knowledge what we do. We shall join you in the yard directly.”

An hour later, two riders emerged from the line of Torenthi troops ranged across the mouth of the Cardosa Pass, heading slowly across the plain toward the Gwynedd line under a white flag of truce. Rhys Michael Haldane watched them from horseback atop a grassy knoll overlooking the plain, Sudrey at his side and Rhun and Manfred flanking them. He was armored but unarmed—as, presumably, were the men coming to meet him. Others of his officers and aides were also gathered round, with the forces of Gwynedd drawn up in orderly lines to either side and back, both Kheldour men and the ones he had brought.

“I still don't like this,” Rhun muttered, his eyes never leaving the approaching pair. “Why does Miklos insist upon a face-to-face meeting?”

Sudrey, astride a bay palfrey at the king's left hand, turned her face toward the earl marshal. She had changed her widow's weeds for the divided skirts and tweeds worn by most noble ladies in these border highlands when they ventured forth on horseback, though a black coif still bound her dark hair.

“Because you found out his agent and broke him,” she said. “He will have attributed at least a part of the credit to his Highness, whether or not this is true. And there
are
the persistent rumors that the Haldanes are divinely favored.”

“What do you mean, ‘divinely favored'?” Manfred rumbled.

“Why, that God protects the Haldanes,” she replied. “Did He not vanquish Imre, when Cinhil came to claim back his throne? 'Tis the power of God that has ordained the survival of Haldane's Royal House.”

Rhun snorted. “Consorting with Deryni sorcerers hardly constitutes divine aid, I think. Satanic, perhaps.”

“Oh, do you still think that Deryni magic was responsible for the Haldane restoration?” Sudrey asked, ignoring the jibe. “Granted, Camber MacRorie and his kin convinced the Michaelines to provide military backing—but that was hardly magic. I was only a girl when it happened, and far from Valoret, but I remember that my uncle Termod was quite convinced that Cinhil Haldane had called up something far outside
our
ability, to defeat Cousin Imre. 'Tis God who protects the Haldanes, my lord, and He will not allow His anointed to come to harm at the hands of a Deryni sorcerer.”

As she rode down the knoll at Rhys Michael's side, heading out across the plain, he glanced at her in some amazement, adjusting the golden circlet on his head with one gloved hand.

“Why did you tell them that? Do you want to get me killed?”

She chuckled. “They have forgotten, Sire, but you are king by Divine Right. I do not pretend to understand where your powers have come from, but it is important that
they
believe them come of God. Now, if it
should
become necessary to use those powers against my kinsman, you have your own justification, even if, for some reason, I cannot cover for you.”

“You expect treachery, then?” he asked.

“I do not expect it, no. But 'tis best to be prepared for such things.”

Nodding thoughtful agreement, he directed his gaze ahead again, studying his adversary as he and Sudrey continued to approach. Now halted in the central area designated for the meeting, beneath the floating banner of white silk borne by Hombard of Tarkent, Prince Miklos of Torenth waited astride a fleet, desert-bred steed the color of a fox. The animal's flaxen mane and tail exactly echoed the shade of its rider's blond hair, which was braided and clubbed at the back of his head in a soldier's knot and bound across the forehead with a fillet of ruddy gold.

Other than some new lines around the dark eyes, Miklos looked scarcely older than when Rhys Michael last had seen him. Instead of the tawny, flowing silks he had worn at Javan's coronation, nearly seven years before, a close-fitting brigandine of russet leather encased his body, studded with roundels of polished brass that caught the sunlight like a galaxy of suns. Matching vambraces clasped his forearms above gauntleted gloves that flared at the wrists, and the thigh-high boots were cut and studded to incorporate greaves in their design. From what Rhys Michael could see, the prince bore no weapons.

Hombard bowed in the saddle as Rhys Michael and Sudrey drew rein, a proper courtier, but neither Miklos nor the king so much as flicked an eyelid downward.

“Well met, Haldane,” Miklos said pleasantly enough. “You were but a lad when last we met. I see that time has at least enabled you to look like what you claim to be.”

“I make no claim,” Rhys Michael said carefully. “I am what I am—King of Gwynedd—and that is something that your kinsman, who calls himself Marek of Festil, can never hope to be.”

“Indeed?” Smiling, Miklos leaned his crossed forearms casually against his saddle's high pommel. “That does remain to be seen, does it not?”

“Some other day, perhaps,” Rhys Michael replied. “I believe possession of Culliecairn is the issue here. Your envoy indicated that you now intend to withdraw.”

“In due course.” Miklos nodded toward Sudrey. “Actually, I wished first to speak with my cousin. Thank you for obliging me by bringing her along.”

Rhys Michael glanced at Sudrey, who had stiffened in the saddle.

“I have nothing to say to my husband's murderer,” she said coldly. “I would not have come, except that my liege lord requested it. I am here to assist the King of Gwynedd, whose vassal I am.”

“And that,” Miklos said, “is precisely what I wished to discuss with you. Cousin, I have been trying for seven years to ascertain what became of you. I did not wish to believe that you would so far betray your blood as to marry against the interests of Torenth.”

“And what is Torenth to me, except that a scion of Torenth has slain my lord?” she retorted. “Where was Torenth when my brother and I were abandoned, after the Festillic collapse? That I found kindness and love amidst my captors I count as one of God's great mercies.”

“A dubious mercy, if it led you to betray your country, your race, and your kin,” Miklos said mildly. “The royal blood of Torenth runs in your veins, Sudrey of Rhorau. Do you recall how we treat with traitors in Torenth?”

Without further preamble, he raised his right fist and thrust it toward her with a muttered Word, opening out his fingers with a snap. The gesture launched a fist-sized ball of fire that roared toward her like an inferno, growing as it came. Even as her shields went up, dismay and outrage flaring with her aura, Rhys Michael was interposing himself, his own shields blazing into being.

In a shower of sparks that scattered and fell like shooting stars, the sphere struck Rhys Michael's shields and dissipated harmlessly, much to the astonishment of both Miklos and Hombard.

What had begun as a casual, almost offhand accompaniment to Miklos' denunciation now shifted to more focused intent directed not only at Sudrey but also at Rhys Michael, who somehow had managed to avert Sudrey's just fate. As Hombard glanced uncertainly at his prince, increasingly fighting a now skittish mount, Miklos stabbed a gloved forefinger at the ground behind Rhys Michael. Sudrey screamed as flame leaped up from the very ground and began to trace a curved, fiery line around to the side and then behind Miklos, laying down a containing circle.

“No!”

Even as it began, Rhys Michael saw the danger—that if the circle closed, their escape was cut off. Instinctively he raised one hand in a gesture of forbidding. A Word of command conjured heavy cloud above the flames, weeping moisture that changed to steam as the fire below was quenched—to the dismay of the horses, who were growing increasingly difficult to control. The result was a smoking black line of burned turf outlining just over half of the circle Miklos had intended—now rendered impotent—and to underline his point, Rhys Michael sent a warning burst of energy against Miklos himself.

The Torenthi prince countered it easily, but his expression showed his shock. His horse began fighting the bit, white-eyed and on the verge of panic, and he had to turn some of his attention to bringing it back under control. Hombard was backing his horse away from Miklos, looking very alarmed, and Sudrey had turned her nervous steed, ready to flee at a word from the king.

“Don't try to interfere, Haldane!” Miklos shouted, again flinging fire behind them to prevent their escape. “'Tis only Sudrey I want.”

“Well, you shan't have her,” Rhys Michael replied, as his own mount reared and fought him.

“No?”

For answer, Rhys Michael turned another, stronger burst of power at Miklos like a crimson wave of light, defense shifting to attack. The Torenthi prince repelled the attack and struck again, but at Sudrey—forked lightning that leaped from his hand to spear her horse through the chest and out one side. The animal squealed and went down under her, dead before it hit the ground, even as Rhys Michael spurred closer to snatch her from the saddle before she could be crushed. He had dragged her to a precarious perch before him and was wheeling his stallion back on its haunches, preparing to disengage, when Hombard's mount slammed into his and sent it and him and Sudrey tumbling.

He ended up flat on his back, wheezing for breath, but somehow he managed to keep hold of the reins. An exultant Hombard was pulling up his stallion a few paces beyond and yanking it around for another pass, gigging the animal into another charge. As Rhys Michael hauled himself around by the reins, scrambling on hands and knees to regain his footing, he managed to avoid being trampled, but one murderous, steel-shod hoof came slamming down on his right hand with crushing force.

He screamed and let go of the reins in reflex. The pain wrenched at his concentration, and he only just managed to deflect another blast of Miklos' magic as he rolled clear and finally staggered to his feet, the injured hand hugged to his breast.

Sudrey had caught his horse and was hanging on to the reins and one stirrup, trying to get back up. To Rhys Michael's shocked horror and surprise, a blast of magic from the “human” Hombard sent her reeling to her knees, with a little cry. The horse bolted and took off for the Gwynedd line, where riders were already starting to thunder down the slope.

But Miklos was joining his attack to Hombard's, a clenched fist raised toward Sudrey, who was clutching at her chest. Through his own pain, Rhys Michael caught a wave of hers and dashed to her side, catching his arms around her from behind and launching another counterattack through the focus of his uninjured hand. The first bolt stopped Miklos' assault and nearly made him pull his mount over backward; the second all but bowled Hombard out of the saddle.

And how could Hombard be Deryni? They had tested him with
merasha
!

The air was atremble with lightning and the acrid smell of power gone rogue. Hombard was backing off, looking shaken and alarmed, but fury turned Miklos' face into a mask. As he readied another attack, this time against Rhys Michael, the king gathered up the power of the spell Dimitri had taught him—that Miklos had tried to use against Sudrey—thrusting outward through the focus of his good hand to punch his power through Miklos' shields and close a fiery hand around the Deryni prince's heart.

Rhys Michael had shaken Miklos' spell from Sudrey, but Miklos could not shake free of Rhys Michael's. And even as he clutched at his chest, doubling over with the pain, his horse betrayed him again, this time bucking him almost clear of the saddle—except for one spurred heel that caught in the stirrup and flipped him upside down to dangle amid the flashing, steel-shod hooves.