The instructions were conveyed in the blink of an eye. The approaching footsteps still had not yet reached the door as Rhys Michael lurched to his feet and staggered far enough away to flatten himself against a wall, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. He had to keep reminding himself that Dimitri was an enemy, only doing what he did because he had no choice. That did not alter the fact that the Deryni was about to sacrifice himself to divert suspicion from Rhys Michael.
Rhun was the first to arrive, closely followed by Paulin and Master Stevanus, but the second battle surgeon could do no more than Dimitri apparently had been able to do. Manfred brought the abbey’s infirmarian as well, but by then the room was getting far too crowded. Paulin confessed himself too shaken to give his brother the Last Rites and had to summon another of his Custodes priests to come and administer that Sacrament.
“How can this have happened?” Paulin murmured, trembling as Rhun drew him into the corridor, where the king and his aides had withdrawn with Manfred. “What was he even doing here, Sire?”
Affecting to be dazed and a little confused himself, Rhys Michael gestured vaguely toward the maps still spread on the table, aware that every word he uttered was likely to make Dimitri’s death more certain.
“He—said something about wanting to make sure I understood the strategy planned for Culliecairn,” he said. “I suppose he noticed that I brought the maps with me after supper.”
“And then he just—collapsed?” Paulin asked, disbelief still mixed with shock.
Rhys Michael let his gaze go a little unfocused, hoping his questioners would read the reaction as uncertainty, something not quite right.
“I—can’t quite remember clearly,” he murmured. “We’d been talking, and suddenly he—was on the floor, going into convulsions of some kind. He clutched at his chest and—started gasping for breath. Dimitri tried to help him, but—”
“Why was Dimitri here?” Rhun demanded, picking up on the cue.
Rhys Michael swallowed audibly, all too aware how very vulnerable he was. “He—Lord Albertus wanted him to T-Truth-Read me.”
“What about?”
“Udaut’s death.”
Manfred snorted and glanced back into the room, where a priest called Ascelin was bent over Albertus’ body, signing the forehead with holy oil.
“He wouldn’t let it go,” he muttered. “He just didn’t want to accept that Udaut’s death was an accident.”
“So, he had Dimitri Truth-Read you,” Paulin said.
Rhys Michael nodded.
“And what else did he have Dimitri do?” Paulin suddenly looked at Rhys Michael in more avid speculation. “Dear God, he’s been wanting to have Dimitri probe you for some time. Did he?”
Swallowing, Rhys Michael looked away, knowing that the truth—the only answer that would turn suspicion from himself—would probably seal Dimitri’s fate.
“I—think so,” he whispered.
“What do you mean, you think so?” Rhun demanded. “Did he touch you?”
“I—don’t—I can’t—”
“He did, my lord,” Fulk offered. “Only for a few seconds, but he definitely touched him.”
Rhys Michael closed his eyes briefly and swayed a little on his feet. He had hoped to avoid so direct an accusation, but Fulk had taken the decision out of his hands—perhaps on Dimitri’s own orders, he suddenly realized. The Deryni had controlled Fulk briefly before sending him for help and must have set the instructions he knew were needed to carry out his own priority—that of protecting the king at whatever cost.
“Sweet Jesu, Albertus, how could you be so stupid?” Paulin murmured, his gaze shifting disbelievingly to the still form of his brother. “On the eve of a confrontation with Torenth, you allow—nay, you invite—a Torenthi Deryni to probe the king, with no way for us to check and see what he’s done besides probe—”
“What are you saying?” Rhys Michael whispered. “He can’t have done more than that. It was only a few seconds, I’m sure. Wouldn’t I know?”
“You weren’t even sure he touched you,” Rhun said coldly, keeping his voice very low. “We’ll hope no serious harm was done in so short a time, but I suggest we try to find out before he realizes we’re suspicious. It’s even possible he had a hand in Albertus’ death. Paulin, have a word with Master Stevanus, would you?”
His subtle gesture with the first two fingers of his right hand sent a chill up Rhys Michael’s spine, for he knew Rhun was referring to a Deryni pricker, which would administer a debilitating dose of merasha. Though it was intended for Dimitri, not himself, the thought of helping deliver any Deryni to the great lords’ ministrations made him almost physically ill.
Back in the deathroom, Dimitri was quietly conversing with Stevanus and the abbey’s infirmarian, away from where Father Ascelin was reciting prayers over Albertus’ body. As Paulin briefly diverted to kneel with the priest and join in a prayer for his brother, Rhun stepped into the doorway and raised a beckoning hand in Dimitri’s direction.
“Master Dimitri, would you come over here, please?”
With a nod to Stevanus, Dimitri came to join Rhun and Manfred and the king, making them a deferential bow. “My lords, Sire.”
“Tell me, Master Dimitri, why did Lord Albertus ask you to accompany him tonight?” Rhun asked.
Dimitri’s glance flicked to Manfred, then to Rhys Michael, carefully neutral, but the brief thought that brushed the king’s mind confirmed that Dimitri was prepared to play out what now appeared to be inevitable.
“Am I to speak freely before Lord Manfred, my lord?” Dimitri asked in a low voice.
“I would not have asked you in front of him if I did not expect you to speak in front of him,” Rhun said sharply. “Why did Lord Albertus bring you here?”
“He wished me to be present while he questioned the king concerning Lord Udaut’s death.”
“To Truth-Read his answers?” Rhun asked.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Why should that be necessary?” Manfred interjected. “Did Lord Albertus have any reason to suppose that the king knew something about Udaut’s death?”
“Not to my knowledge, my lord.”
“Very well,” Rhun said. “And did you Truth-Read the king?”
“I did.”
“With what result?”
“Why, the king was telling the truth, of course. How could it be otherwise? Lord Udaut’s death was an accident.”
“Was it?” Rhun asked.
Dimitri did not even blink. “I have said that the king had nothing to do with it, my lord. Why do you question me this way? Have I not served you faithfully these many years and never given you cause to doubt my word?”
“Perhaps we were led to overlook such cause,” Paulin said, slipping back into the conversation beside the Deryni. “What else did you do to the king besides Truth-Read him, Dimitri? Did you perhaps probe him, as you’ve been wanting to do for some time? And what did you do to my brother?”
Dimitri had led the questioning in this direction. It was the only possible scenario that would satisfy the great lords’ questioning and totally divert suspicion from the king, and Rhys Michael knew it—and knew that Dimitri knew it.
“To your brother?” Dimitri asked, scorn in his tone. “Surely your grief has made you mad.”
“Dear God, did you kill him?” Paulin whispered, now convinced that he had stumbled onto the truth. “Brother Serafin died of ‘heart failure’ a few days before Javan’s coronation, and we always wondered about that. You weren’t around then, but there were other Deryni who were capable. That’s one of the more insidious Deryni spells, isn’t it? You can kill a man without even touching him. We’ll never know if Udaut actually died of ‘heart failure,’ but you could have reached out with your mind and done that—and also made his horse go mad and trample him, to cover your tracks. Did you summon up that swarm of bees, too? Was it my brother who was meant to drown?”
Dimitri shook his head disd
ainfully, turning to Rhun in appeal. “My lord, I am given far more credit than I deserve. If such conjectures seem plausible to you, small wonder that your people fear mine. Regardless of what answers I may give you, I am damned merely for being what I am. For what good it will do, I remind you that my kind have limitations, just as all men do. Physical contact is almost always required. We—”
In that instant, at a nod from Paulin, Master Stevanus made physical contact with Dimitri via a Deryni pricker, jamming its double needles into the taut muscles at the base of the Deryni’s neck. Dimitri gasped and clapped a hand to the pain, dislodging the device as he whirled in dismay to throw off the hands already trying to restrain him, but his eyes told Rhys Michael that the Deryni was well aware of his plight.
In the seconds remaining before the merasha rendered him powerless, Dimitri might carry out one more order besides the very last—and over that one, he had no control, for it must wait until the very end. Before the drug could begin to diffuse his powers, even as Rhun and Manfred were grabbing at his arms to take him prisoner, he turned the full strength of his magic on Paulin, twining his hands in a death-grip in the neck of the prelate’s black robes to pull him closer and will invisible hands of fire to clutch not at Paulin’s heart but at his mind.
Paulin screamed and kept on screaming, a bloodcurdling wail of mortal agony that rose on a higher and ever higher pitch, until Rhys Michael thought that vocal cords of mere human flesh could not sustain such a sound. Yet even that was but a poor reflection of the true anguish of a mind being ripped. Surely Cathan must have felt some of the spillover, but he and Fulk boldly dragged Rhys Michael back from the physical struggle to shield him with their bodies, lest Dimitri attempt some attack on the king.
And all the while, unaware of the true magnitude of Dimitri’s attack, the others were wrenching at his arms and shouting conflicting orders, Manfred bellowing for them to kill him, Rhun screaming that, no, they must take him alive. Cringing behind Cathan and Fulk, helpless to prevent any of what was unfolding so rapidly, Rhys Michael sensed a faltering in the energies and guessed that the merasha must be starting to erode Dimitri’s control. Just then, Rhun managed to place a precise blow behind Dimitri’s left ear with the pommel of his dagger.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Whereas thy servant worketh truly, entreat him not evil, nor the hireling that bestoweth himself wholly for thee.
—Ecclesiasticus 7:20
The flow of power ceased utterly as Dimitri crumpled like an ox felled with a poleax, arms trailing limply down Paulin’s chest as he sagged to his knees and was dragged apart by ready hands.
But merely subduing Dimitri did not end Paulin’s agony. Though his shrieking choked off in midscream, his body arched in a strangled convulsion, still flailing as it pitched to the floor.
“Stevanus, see to him!” Rhun shouted, as he and Manfred stripped the belt from Dimitri’s own waist and began to lash his wrists together.
Stevanus was already scrambling to Paulin’s side. The convulsions were weakening, but Paulin’s eyes were vacant and staring. His rigid chest kept heaving with the effort to draw breath, but clearly no air was reaching his lungs.
“He’s dying! He can’t breathe!” Stevanus gasped, rolling Paulin onto his side and prying the rigid jaws apart.
In the corridor, Rhys Michael clung to the door frame and craned his neck to see what was happening. Blood gushed from Paulin’s mouth as Stevanus thrust his fingers inside, apparently probing for whatever was obstructing the airway.
“Jesus, he’s swallowed his tongue!” the king heard him gasp.
As Stevanus forced his fingers deeper to dislodge the obstruction, the abbey’s infirmarian came creeping timidly from under the table where he had taken refuge. Together, the two of them quickly managed to get Paulin breathing again, albeit shallowly, but Paulin had bitten his tongue nearly through as he convulsed. The bloody lump of it lay in the blood-soaked straw beside his head as Stevanus cast his knife aside and shakily shifted a gory hand to the pulse point in his patient’s neck. The infirmarian was pressing a wadded edge of his scapular to the stump of Paulin’s tongue to staunch the bleeding, keeping the head turned so he would not choke on his own blood.
“Dear God,” Rhys Michael murmured, slumping weakly against the door frame. He had not expected anything of this magnitude.
Meanwhile, Paulin’s spine-chilling screams had brought men running from either end of the corridor, wide-eyed monks and soldiers with swords in their hands. Crowding anxiously around the doorway, trying to peer in, most hardly noticed how they jostled the shaken king and his aides, pressing them back into the room. The priest Ascelin was cowering in shock beside the body of Albertus, farther toward the shuttered window, and both Stevanus and his erstwhile assistant looked white-faced and shaken.
“Is he still alive?” Rhun demanded, glancing around from the still unconscious Dimitri as Manfred tightened a belt around their captive’s ankles.
“Yes.” Stevanus grimaced as Paulin’s pulse fluttered beneath his bloody fingers.
“Jesus, where did all the blood come from?” Rhun said, rising to come closer.
“His tongue.” Stevanus gestured toward the bit of bloody flesh in the straw. “Even if he survives whatever else Dimitri did to him, he’ll never speak again.”
“God in heaven,” Rhun murmured. “Then, he may still die?”
“I don’t know. Since I have no idea what the Deryni did to him, I can’t even tell you which to hope for.”
“Damn the Deryni and their powers!” Rhun said, uneasily glancing back at Dimitri. “I told Paulin something like this would happen one of these days, if he insisted on continuing to use Deryni.”
Brother Polidorus, the infirmarian, glanced toward Dimitri and fought down a shudder.
“’Tis black magic,” he muttered. “Woe be unto all of us, if the Deryni has summoned evil spirits under this roof.”
Rhun rolled his eyes heavenward, though he, too, darted another nervous glance back at Dimitri. Manfred had shifted nearer the Deryni’s head, his dagger pressed to the upturned throat. He flinched at the monk’s words and blanched even paler, his free hand fumbling at the open neck of his tunic until it could close around a substantial gold crucifix.
“Good God, you don’t really think—”
“I think,” Rhun said, “that Brother Polidorus ought to see about getting Father Paulin to the infirmary. Stevanus, I need you here with me. Let the priests deal with Paulin and make sure he can’t do anything when he comes around.” As he prodded Dimitri’s bound form roughly with a booted toe, he finally noticed the men crowded into the doorway behind the king and stabbed a forefinger at the soldiers in the front.
“You, you, and the two of you, come and help get Father Paulin to the infirmary. What are the rest of you gawking at? Go back to your quarters, all of you. Everything is under control.”
As the four selected edged warily into the room, giving distance to the dark-clad form Manfred guarded, the others reluctantly began to disperse. Directed by Brother Polidorus, the four briskly lifted the unconscious Paulin onto their shoulders and carried him out. Stevanus was bending over Dimitri.
“Now, Fulk,” Rhun went on, spotting Fulk beside the king and beckoning him nearer. “Inform the abbot what’s happened, then fetch me Father Lior, Father Magan—and Gallard de Breffni. Tell Gallard to bring his tools. Go!”
As Fulk threw a salute and ducked out the door, Rhun turned next to Cathan.
“You, help Father Ascelin see about taking Lord Albertus’ body to wherever the mortuary chapel is, then find Lord Joshua Delacroix and tell him what’s happened. Tell him he’s acting Grand Master of the Custodes knights until the Order can make an official appointment of Albertus’ replacement—or is there someone more senior, Stevanus?”
“No, he’s suitable,” the battle surgeon said. He had come away from Dimitri momentarily to wash the gore from his hands, over at the washstand beside the single bed.
“Right, then. Delacroix is acting Grand Master. Acting vicar-general, too, for that matter, unless it has to be a priest. You Custodes will have to sort that out. Go, Cathan. Meanwhile, as Albertus’ designated second-in-command, I take the office of earl marshal to myself and hereby assume command of this campaign—unless you want it back, Manfred. You were earl marshal before Albertus.”
“And I resigned,” Manfred said. “But I’ll serve under you as vice-marshal, if you wish.”
“Thank you. I’ll welcome your experience. Now, let’s get this Deryni secured before he regains consciousness. We’ve got a long night ahead of us, but I intend to break him before dawn.”
Neither Rhun nor Manfred seemed to have any particular instructions for Rhys Michael, as they now proceeded to turn the room into an impromptu interrogation chamber. The king had no desire to stay and watch what was going to happen, but since they had commandeered his room, he really had nowhere else to go. Nor did he think he ought to go very far, at least until one of his aides returned. And the question remained of whether Dimitri would reveal anything that might endanger Rhys Michael, even though the Deryni had claimed that he was ordered to protect him.
Apparently all but forgotten by the two, as men came and went to do Rhun’s bidding, the king soon found himself eddied into a dim corner of the room where the torchlight did not really reach—which at least was a vantage point from which he might watch and not himself be noticed. Now, if he could just avoid doing anything that might shift attention back onto himself …
After a few minutes, Custodes monks came to carry Albertus’ body away. Soon after they had departed, Fulk returned with Father Lior, the Custodes inquisitor-general, who was accompanied by a younger man in priest’s garb and a greying, blondish man wearing the black jazerant and red-fringed white sash of a Custodes knight.
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