“Well, I think it’s going to take more than that and far sooner than six months from now,” Rhysel replied. “Are they in the staff room? I need to get back as soon as possible, but if we’re to salvage anything from this, we’ll need to move quickly.”
“I’ll take you,” Tieg agreed. “Camlin, I’ll have to back out on that offer to relieve you.”
Rhysel gave her brother the gist of her plan en route, in quick rapport that spared nothing of the dangers inherent in what she proposed. She and Tieg had always been close, and they had discussed a similar scenario before, unbeknownst to their elders.
A few minutes later, she had conveyed just her news to her uncle and the other four men gathered with him around a table strewn with maps and papers. She had not expected Niallan and Queron, but she knew them all very well, and the arguments they were likely to raise—and that any argument could come to only one conclusion, once she told them what she proposed. But she still had to convince them.
Her Uncle Joram would have the final say, of course, even though Bishop Niallan was his senior in years and ecclesiastical rank. Joram was the only one of them to have been there from the beginning, back when his father, the sainted Camber, had orchestrated the Haldane Restoration. Only Joram had firsthand knowledge of how it had been done, and only Joram could shoulder that ultimate responsibility for deciding what must follow.
He had paid a price for the weight of such authority. The silver-gilt hair grew a little more tarnished with each passing year, even receding a little at the temples of late, cool silver now against the plain black cassock that was his usual working attire instead of the Michaeline blue he once had worn. The planes of the handsome face, once merely lean, had been honed to something more akin to ascetic.
But the Michaeline knight remained. Though the distinctive blue cassock of his former order had been abandoned some years ago, save for ceremonial occasions, he had taken to wearing the white sash of his knighthood at all times, in unspoken declaration of his self-assumed role as inheritor of the trust his order had borne before their suppression. Had the Order still existed in Gwynedd, he might have been their vicar-general by now. At forty-three, though no longer battle-fit because of the forced exile of the last decade, he was only now approaching his intellectual prime.
Nor were his companions any less formidable. Close by Joram’s right hand sat Niallan Trey, the exiled former Bishop of Dhassa. Before his elevation to the episcopate, Niallan had been a Michaeline like Joram. Even now, though in his early sixties, something of the former warrior remained in the way he carried himself, in the cant of the proud grey head, in the military precision of the close-clipped grey beard. He, too, wore the white sash of Michaeline knighthood.
Dom Queron was one of their two resident Healers besides Tieg, steel-slender and intense, his wiry hair gone nearly white and once again grown long enough to display the four-stranded braid of his original religious order, though he had been a Servant of Saint Camber and a disciple of the preacher Revan since. A priest and Healer he remained, and always at heart a Gabrilite, though he wore the grey robe of the Camberians under a green Healer’s mantle rather than the white of the Gabrilites; either would have meant his death outside these walls.
Then there were Ansel and Jesse, only in their mid-twenties, Ansel looking much as his famous uncle must have looked at that age, light-eyed like Joram, but fairer than Joram had ever been. He wore his hair close-cropped to make it less memorable, for the sun had bleached it almost to white. His riding leathers were well cut, but plain and patched in several places, molded to his lean frame by years of wear in all kinds of weather. His homespun shirt could have done with a wash.
Jesse, shorter and stockier than Ansel, was dressed much the same, with brassy highlights streaking the brown hair queued back with a rawhide thong. Both men had unbuckled their swords and laid them across one end of the trestle table—serviceable-enough weapons by mere appearance, unremarkable by their mountings and well-worn scabbards, but bladed with the finest R’Kassan steel. The pair had spent most of the last six years looking like what they were not, ferreting out the information and contacts that would eventually enable them to assist a Haldane coup in Rhemuth.
When Rhysel had finished her initial report, Ansel scowled and moved around to the far end of the table to consult one of the lists he had brought to Joram, glancing at his uncle in speculation. Jesse was silently turning a map marker in suntanned, callused fingers, emotion stirring golden flecks in the depths of his brown eyes.
“I wonder why they’re letting the king go to Eastmarch,” Jesse said quietly. “They’ve never even let him go on a progress before, much less a military campaign. It’s too dangerous—aside from the question of his physical safety. What if he tried to take the bit in his teeth and break free, in front of witnesses?”
“Maybe they don’t mean for him to come back,” Ansel retorted. “With another heir in the offing, maybe they’d just as soon he died in glorious combat with the enemy, the way his brother did. They might even find a way to blame it on us again.”
“It doesn’t matter why they’re letting him go, don’t you see?” Rhysel said, leaning both hands on the table in front of where she stood. “The point is, he’s going—and he’s going to be in grave danger. Now, what are we going to do about it?”
“A bit more warning would have been useful,” Niallan said quietly, bestirring himself to turn one of the maps for a better look at the area of Eastmarch. “But whatever the great lords’ long-term plans may be, we’d better have a presence there secretly, at least. If we’re lucky, maybe we can help counter dirty tricks, if Marek decides to try any arcane unpleasantness.”
Ansel swept aside a stack of papers and flounced into his chair. “A lot of good that’s going to do,” he muttered. “Uncle Joram, are you going to say something?”
Sighing, Joram tossed aside the remains of the quill pen he had been shredding while the others argued, avoiding Queron’s gaze.
“Our original scenario is impossible,” he said. “It would mean moving our timetable forward a full six months. It can’t be done.”
“Not all of it—no,” Rhysel said.
To the man, other than Tieg, those present turned to stare at her aghast.
“I hope you aren’t suggesting what I think you’re suggesting,” Queron murmured.
Rhysel pursed her lips, bracing for their objections. “There’s only one option open to us, if we hope to have a king six months from now,” she said quietly. “We must try to bring the king’s powers through. Tonight.”
Joram closed his eyes, drawing a slow, deep breath. Queron was shaking his head. Ansel and Jesse glanced at one another uneasily. Tieg sat forward eagerly in his chair on Joram’s other side. Niallan watched and said nothing, only his nervous turning of his bishop’s ring betraying his tension.
“It’s out of the question,” Joram finally said, not looking at her.
“No, that is the question. Hear me out. We know that he can Truth-Read; we also know he has shields. That’s as much as Javan had, when you brought him to power. He’s got to have access to his powers before he heads off for a war in which his enemy might use magic against him. Whether it’s Marek himself or only Miklos he has to face, neither of them will stop at anything to kill him, if they get the chance. Aside from the fact that we don’t want it known that he has Deryni backing, he may need more protection than Ansel and Jesse are able to provide.”
“The need is not at issue!” Joram replied. “The means is another matter entirely. Just whom did you have in mind to accomplish what you’re asking?”
“You. Me. Tieg. Michaela.”
“Michaela?” Joram said.
“What about Michaela?” Ansel asked, almost simultaneously.
“Oh, Ansel, she’s your half sister; you needn’t sound so shocked,” Rhysel replied. “We’ve all tended to forget, because she’s been blocked, but she is Deryni. Not a very powerful one, even if she weren’t blocked
, and without any training—but that could be remedied.”
“By Tieg,” Ansel said disbelievingly. “You’d have him unblock her, and she’s suddenly the equivalent of a fully trained, experienced Deryni.”
“Of course not. But the king trusts her more than any other living person. She might be able to help us catalyze him.”
“I can’t even consider such a notion,” Joram said, not looking at Tieg, whose expression had a hopeful look. “We daren’t risk Tieg on something so uncertain.”
“You’ll need a Healer,” Rhysel countered.
“Queron. Rickart,” Joram replied.
“But they can’t unblock Michaela.”
“But they are trained Deryni and experienced ritualists,” Joram pointed out. “Besides, what makes you think Michaela could be useful, if she did have her powers?”
“I know that she’d do anything to help her husband,” Rhysel said simply. “Incidentally, she’s carrying another boy; Tieg showed me what to look for, and I finally was able to read it.”
Queron groaned, and Joram merely shook his head.
“That gives the great lords their ‘heir and a spare,’” Ansel murmured, looking stricken.
“True enough,” Jesse agreed, “but they don’t know that yet—and won’t, until the child is born. A lot could happen between now and then.”
Niallan turned him a droll look. “I don’t think we can count on another miscarriage to save us this time, Jesse.”
“It won’t matter much anyway, if Marek launches magic at the king and he has no protection,” Ansel said.
“Which is why he must have power,” Rhysel replied. “Surely you see that. Joram, I haven’t got time to argue with you. We’ve got to try. It’s his only hope.”
Joram only closed his eyes for a long moment, turning his head aside to bury his face in one pale hand briefly.
“I confess to being very nearly daunted,” he said quietly, as he raised his head and forced himself to draw a deep breath. “All our planning has been geared to a schedule six months away—first an attempt to bring the king’s power through, and then the follow-up with loyal troops shifted into the castle by Portal, the way we did for Cinhil. There’s no way we can move our men that fast even if the first could be done. I’d be throwing away lives for nothing.”
“Then, we won’t worry about that part until after Eastmarch is resolved,” Rhysel replied. “I agree that there’s no way we can move the full operation forward so quickly. But meanwhile, we do what we can to bring the king’s power through tonight. If it isn’t tonight, it may not happen at all. And if it doesn’t and Marek of Festil brings magic to the meeting in Eastmarch, we may lose another Haldane. I thought that’s what all our sacrifices have been for—to keep the rightful Haldane kings on the throne of Gwynedd and give them every possible chance to reign independent of great lords or regents. If Rhys Michael is killed, it’s ten years before his son is of age.”
“I have dealt with a regency before, you know!” Joram snapped. “I do have some idea what would be involved.”
“Then give the king the best possible chance to survive this,” she replied. “We can’t let him ride off to Eastmarch without at least trying to bring through his powers. We’ve discussed the theory often enough, and you’ve personally helped bring other Haldane kings to power.”
“With preparation,” Joram agreed. “With an experienced team who knew precisely what they were doing. And it didn’t work for Alroy.”
“Only because you never got a chance to finish what Cinhil started,” Rhysel retorted. “It worked for Cinhil, and it worked for Javan. As for an experienced team—well, none of you were experienced when Cinhil came to power. You learned as you went along. This time, at least you have experience.”
Joram sighed heavily and looked away from her, shaking his head, clearly preparing another objection, but she set a hand on his wrist and drew his gaze back.
“Joram, we can’t hope to succeed without you,” she said. “Tieg and I are as ready as we can be, under the circumstances, but we need you to direct us. And Michaela can be drafted to help, once Tieg reinstates her powers—and Cathan, too.”
Ansel snorted, a short bark of mirthless laughter. “Rhysel, they were only children when they lost what scant powers they had; it was I who had it done, to protect them. And before that, they’d had no training. My dear mother forbade it.”
“I know that,” Rhysel replied. “But I’ve taken the liberty of laying some groundwork, at least with the queen. I’ve blocked all memory of what I’ve done, but she has the full background of what she is and was, and what she must let be done to help her husband survive. I can release that in an instant. Cathan is less certain, because I haven’t had opportunity to probe him or work with him, but I know that he’s utterly devoted to his sister and the king. There’s absolutely no question of that. I’m sure he’d cooperate as best he’s able.”
“And what about the king?” Joram asked.
Rhysel glanced down at her hands, surprised to find them nervously pleating a section of her skirt.
“I haven’t dared to try touching him yet, for obvious reasons. The shields are going to be his biggest obstacle—and ours. He’ll be suspicious, as well he should be. That’s why I think that Michaela will be the key to gaining his cooperation, especially with so little time to prepare and explain. I know there are excruciating risks, just to confront him with the possibility, but it can work, Joram. It has to work.”
“And if it doesn’t?” he asked.
She drew a deep, fortifying breath and met his gaze unflinchingly.
“If it doesn’t work,” she said softly, “you and I and whoever else is involved probably will not survive to worry. We’ve waited for my generation to be ready for this day; perhaps it will be for the next generation to try again.”
“If we do it right,” Tieg said, speaking for the first time, “it won’t be necessary for the next generation to try again. I know we can do it, Uncle Joram.”
“Ah, the optimism of youth,” Joram murmured. He closed his eyes briefly, then nodded.
“Very well. We’re left with no choice. Queron, the rest of you, am I going to have your full support in this? We’ll have a lot to do in the next few hours.”
The two younger men nodded, wide-eyed, and Niallan sighed and whispered, “Aye,” as Queron lifted a hand in reluctant agreement.
“All right, then. Rhysel, go back to the queen and make the basic preparations you outlined. You daren’t tarry here any longer, or you’ll be missed. I’ll work out a format with Tieg and Queron in the meantime. Be alert for a contact late in the evening. And be very, very careful.”
CHAPTER FIVE
There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear.
—I John 4:18
Rhysel returned to the royal apartments to find the queen in the solar, reading to young Prince Owain, while the boy’s nurse visited with some of the queen’s ladies in the window bay. Mother and son were cozily ensconced in a large wooden chair well cushioned by embroidered pillows, and both looked up as Rhysel came in. Grey-eyed Owain was the image of his Haldane father, with a shining cap of jet-black hair cut close around his face.
“Ah, there you are, Liesel,” the queen said, closing her book. “What have you brought?”
The sweet fragrance of the garden accompanied Rhysel as she came to let the queen see into the flat basket over her arm.
“Fresh-cut blossoms to grace the Queen’s Grace,” Rhysel said, smiling, as she held a golden jonquil close to the queen’s wheaten hair. “Your Highness asked if I could do something special with your hair for tonight. I thought I might pull the sides back into a loose braid down the back and weave in a cascade of flowers.”
“Hmmm, the king would like that, I think,” Michaela replied, selecting a pale yellow rose and inhaling deeply of its perfume. “Owain, do you think your papa would like some of these braided into Mummy’s hair?”
The four-year-o
ld sniffed critically at the bloom, then shook his head and pushed it away.
“Papa likes red ones best,” he declared, reaching for a smaller, more delicate tea rose of vibrant crimson. “Put red ones in Mummy’s hair, Liesel.” He gave it an appreciative sniff and smiled wide. “Mmmm, smells nice.”
Both Michaela and Rhysel grinned at that, and the queen gave an accommodating shrug as she took the flower from her son.
“Well, that would appear to settle the question,” she said. “Apparently the men in my life prefer red roses to any other color. Perhaps it comes of being Haldanes.” She allowed herself a resigned sigh. “Ah, well. I prefer pastels, but have Agatha choose something suitable to go with red roses, would you? Come back when Owain’s had his supper and gone to bed.”
Later, while Rhysel dressed the queen’s hair, she had ample time to set her instructions in place for later in the evening. It would hardly be the leisurely and romantic leave-taking that Michaela was anticipating, but Rhysel saw no remedy for that—not if they continued to hold any hope that the king might be brought to full access of his Haldane powers on such short notice. She wished there had been opportunity to prepare Cathan as well, but he and Fulk had been closeted with the king all afternoon, down in the council chamber. At least Fulk was dining with his parents this evening, since he, too, would be riding out with the king on the morrow.
She made a last adjustment to the queen’s coiffure, teasing loose two wispy tendrils at the temples, then laid aside her comb and picked up a mirror to hold for Michaela’s inspection. The queen had dressed with care, in a loose-fitting night shift of ivory silk with a rose damask over-robe. She had clasped it at the throat with the Haldane brooch, borrowed back from Rhys Michael when he returned from his meetings to bathe and change. The color complemented the claret-colored roses twined in her hair and gave her a rosy glow of her own.
“It’s perfect,” she said softly, smiling as she glanced at Rhysel above the mirror. “Thank you, Liesel. Now hand me those pearl drops for my ears, and I’ll be ready.”
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