CHAPTER EIGHT
I am become a stranger unto my brethren, and an alien unto my mother’s children.
More than a week passed before Tavis was able to agree on a plan with Ansel and coordinate its implementation with Javan. The prince readily agreed to assist them, confirming their fears that the regents were showing uncommon interest in the young MacLean sisters, but he warned of some other machination afoot as well—something of which he had been able to glean only vague hints that an important event was brewing.
“I couldn’t begin to guess what it’s all about,” a worried Javan told the Healer, at their last meeting before the planned operation. “Not even Rhys Michael knows—and he usually has some idea when the regents are up to something.”
Tavis sighed. “Well, we’re just going to have to do the best we can. What about the other Deryni in the castle? Have they paid any particular attention to the girls?”
Javan cocked his head quizzically. “Now that you mention it, no. In fact, I haven’t seen most of them, lately. I know that Rhun took Carmody and Sitric out on winter maneuvers with him, right after you last came, but I have no idea why, or how long they’re supposed to be gone.”
“Well, that’s two less to worry about, anyway,” Tavis murmured. “What about Oriel?”
“He’s scheduled to go with Hubert to Ramos, midweek—though I understand he’s been down with a bad cold and fever for several days.”
“What’s happening in Ramos?”
“Some religious convocation, I suppose. Murdoch and Tammaron are planning to go along, too. I suppose they’ll use Oriel to keep everyone else in line. Oh, and Manfred’s got a pet Deryni now, too, name of Ursin O’Carroll, but I don’t know anything about him.”
“I do,” Tavis muttered. “A failed Healer, but a very powerful practitioner, otherwise. He and I started Varnarite training together.”
“You know him, then.”
“Aye. Not well enough to predict what he’ll do, but too well not to be recognized, if he saw me.”
But he agreed to the delay that Javan suggested, until Hubert and the others had gone to Ramos. The night of the twenty-first, just before midnight, found Tavis peering cautiously out of the garderobe Portal below the King’s Tower, Ansel at his back. Javan was waiting for them in the shadows, just past the first set of torches. No guards were anywhere to be seen or sensed.
“We’re really in luck,” Javan whispered, as the two bent close to hear. “None of the regents are in Valoret tonight. Hubert and his cronies left yesterday, as planned, and even Manfred and his pimply-faced son have gone off to Caerrorie. They left this morning, and they took that Ursin O’Carroll fellow with them. Word came back a few hours ago that they’re spending the night and won’t be back until midday tomorrow.”
Ansel nodded grimly. “Good. What about my mother?”
“She and Lord James retired early. Their quarters are at the end of the west wing, above the old queen’s gallery. Your little sister and brother are in an adjoining room to the right, with the MacLean girls in a separate suite beyond that.” Touching both men’s hands simultaneously, Javan flashed them a picture of the precise location. “It’s one of the better places the regents could have put them, actually. That part of the castle is never heavily guarded. You shouldn’t have any trouble getting in and out without anyone the wiser. In that part of the castle, at this hour, I doubt you’ll see more than one or two guards.”
They saw no guards, once they reached the west wing—which almost made Tavis more nervous than if there had been guards. After sending Javan back to his quarters with instructions to go to bed, he and Ansel spent nearly a quarter of an hour working their way through the west wing—slipping stealthily from shadow to shadow on soft, indoor boots that made no sound, all but invisible in stone-colored tunics and hoods. They were never challenged. Outside his mother’s door, Ansel kept watch while Tavis set his magic to the working of the lock. The faint, metallic snick of the tumblers falling into place sounded like the crack of doom to heightened Deryni senses, but the two were in and across the room, drawing back the curtains on the great, canopied bed, before a groggy Jamie Drummond even began to rouse from sleep, starting to sit up in alarm.
“What—”
But he never got out more than that one word. Even as he lunged for the sword hanging over the head of the bed, Tavis was on him, stripping James Drummond of what little Deryni power he had and then plunging the older man into sudden, unresisting sleep. Simultaneously, Ansel clapped a hand over his mother’s mouth, pinning her struggles beneath the blankets and the weight of his body as his mind sought the psychic link they once had shared.
“Mother!” he whispered, trying to seize her attention and stop her struggling. “Mother, stop it! It’s Ansel. I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”
She went limp at that, though her mind instantly shuttered behind surprisingly imposing shields. As Tavis slowly straightened on the other side of the bed and glanced at her, breathing hard, his hand still spanning the upturned throat of the unconscious James Drummond, her eyes flicked to him in horror and she started struggling again.
“It’s all right!” Ansel whispered, giving her a shake and trying again to quiet her as Tavis conjured handfire so she could see their faces. “Jamie isn’t hurt. Tavis has just put him to sleep. Now, will you promise not to scream, if I take my hand from over your mouth?”
Her eyes flashed outrage and anger, but she nodded. Ansel was still wary, though, as he eased his hand from her mouth.
“I’m sorry, Mother. I had to see you, though.”
She snorted, but her reply was the required whisper. “Do you think it necessarily follows that I wish to see you? What have you done to Jamie?”
“I told you, Tavis put him to sleep. We couldn’t risk him raising the alarm.”
“Which he surely would have done, since my son the outlaw chose to creep into my bedchamber by night, like some common ruffian! I have nothing to say to you, Ansel.”
“I regret that, Mother,” Ansel murmured. “But I have something of great importance to say to you. Why have you come back to court?”
She grimaced and turned her face away from him and from Tavis, tarnished blond hair tangled on the pillow like a young girl’s. “Did we have a choice?”
“What has been said about the children?” Ansel replied. “I know Manfred MacInnis’ son has been paying court to the MacLean sisters.”
She closed her eyes briefly. “It’s none of your affair, Ansel,” she breathed. “Just leave us alone.”
Ansel shook his head. “I can’t do that. What of my little sister? What about Michaela?”
“I told you, it isn’t any of your concern. I don’t want to discuss it.”
“Have any of the Deryni here at the castle paid particular attention to any of them?” Ansel insisted. “Mother, it’s important that I know.”
“And what possible difference could it make? Isn’t it enough that your brother died a traitor’s death and you are rapidly following in his footsteps? Must you destroy what is left of this family?”
Her voice had started to rise on that last question, and Ansel clapped his hand over her mouth again, to her utter fury.
“Not destroy it, Mother. I’m going to have to do the only thing I know possibly to save it.” He glanced at Tavis and gave him a reluctant nod. “I’m sorry.”
She bucked under him, trying at least to throw off his hand to scream, but once Tavis’ hand made contact, it was over in an instant. Ansel’s mind surged in behind the shields that were no longer there, to read an even more frightening prospect than he had dreamed—for the regents planned to foster Ansel’s half-sister, the ten-year-old Michaela Drummond, to the household of Manfred MacInnis and his wife; and Michaela’s brother Cathan, now eight, would become a page in the household of Prince Rhys Michael. As for the MacLean girls—
Ansel withdrew briefly, horrified, suddenly aware that Tavis had gone into the other room to deal with his half-siblings—which was absolutely essential now, after what Ansel had just learned. Quickly he returned to Elinor’s mind, erasing all memory of his visit and what they had done, substituting harmless memories of what little Deryni ability Elinor had had. In that, at least, they had been in time, for neither Elinor and Jamie nor their children had warranted any special attention from captive Deryni since their return to court.
But was Ansel in time to save the MacLean girls? As he completed the necessary adjustments in his mother’s mind and withdrew for good, Tavis was gliding back into the room, a satisfied smile lighting his face for just an instant as he nodded to Ansel.
They’ll remember nothing, he sent. They didn’t even stir. Shall we move on next door?
Ansel conveyed his worries about the MacLean sisters to Tavis as the two of them moved through the anteroom and toward the door to the corridor, but they had to wait there as heavy footsteps tramped past—one of the inevitable guard patrols they had not encountered earlier. Ears pressed against the door, Deryni senses tensed to their limits, they heard a door open and close, farther down the corridor, and then more feet continuing on out of hearing. When nothing else occurred to jar their caution for several minutes, Ansel cautiously eased the door open a crack. The corridor was deserted.
Let’s go, he ordered.
The door relocked behind them as easily as the next door yielded to their magic. They slipped inside without mishap, Ansel remaining to keep watch while Tavis glided deeper inside to locate their quarry. Near the window, a rushlight burned feebly on a coffer between two narrow beds mounded with sleeping furs. Tavis bent briefly over the bed on the left, doing what needed to be done, then moved on to the one on the right—and went rigid with shock.
Ansel, come here!
The summons did not brook delay or even question. Instantly Ansel was dashing across the room, to look on in horror as Tavis drew back the edge of sleeping fur that covered the silent, unmoving form of a young girl just entering puberty, the soft curves of her child’s face barely beginning to streamline to the stronger planes of young womanhood.
Except that little Giesele MacLean would never become a woman now, for she was quite dead.
“My God, what happened?” Ansel breathed, dropping to his knees, not daring to touch her.
“I didn’t do a thing,” Tavis replied, pressing his fingers hard along her throat in vain search for some thread of pulse. “I haven’t a clue what caused it. She’s just dead—and only quite recently, too.”
“Recently enough to revive her?” Ansel dared to ask, knowing that Healers sometimes could bring a patient back from the brink of death, if damage was not too severe.
Tavis slipped his hand along the side of her head, resting his thumb against her temple, and pressed his stump against the right side of her neck. After a few seconds, he shook his head.
“Can’t bring her back. But this soon, I should be able to read something of how it happened. Niallan has taught me several interesting techniques in the past few months.”
“To hell with Niallan!” Ansel muttered under his breath, though he did not interfere as Tavis closed his eyes and set to work.
The Healer bowed his head over the dead girl as he drew a long, slow breath to trigger the very deep trance he must achieve to work a Death-Reading. He could feel the faint flutter in the pit of his stomach that confirmed his readiness to proceed, and he breathed a silent prayer that little Giesele’s suffering had not been too great. His teachers had taught him well, for very quickly he was in the memories of her last few seconds of life—and suddenly reliving them!
She had been dreaming about her father at first—happy, carefree memories from her earlier childhood, before death carried off Lord Geoffrey MacLean in a hunting accident. Giesele had been just six.
But then the dream had shifted to nightmare—a vividly imagined scenario of her cousin Adrian’s death by torture, spun from the graphic and triumphant reports that swept through the court when the perpetrators returned, and embellished in terrifying detail by a frightened twelve-year-old.
The horror of it had jarred her from sleep, but only to plunge her into far more immediate terror. Already trembling and gasping for breath, she opened her eyes to a hazy, sleep-blurred glimpse of someone towering over her narrow bed. But she never had time to scream—only to catch a final impression of a hard, bearded face and a vast, leather-covered chest, just before gauntleted arms pressed something soft and suffocating hard against her face.
She had tried to escape, flailing wildly underneath her sleeping furs at first; but the man set a knee across her chest to hold her, relentlessly crushing out the breath she had managed to catch before the pillow began pressing her closer and closer to the darkness. Consciousness seeped away fitfully, even as the slender body twitched and gradually was still, the terror eventually giving way to a resigned peacefulness, until even that was gone.
Tavis was never sure exactly when she slipped away; only that, at last, Giesele MacLean was no longer there. As he drew another deep breath and opened his eyes, blinking back tears, he thought her body underneath his hand was already cooler than it had been when he began. As he bent to press his lips to her forehead in final farewell, he brushed at his tears with his stump.
“What happened?” Ansel whispered.
Tavis sighed, drained. “They had her killed. Smothered. To look as if she died in her bed. Children do sometimes, you know.”
“But—”
Shaking his head, Tavis reached out and took up one of Ansel’s hands, sending his reading across the bond of flesh before Ansel had time to do more than draw a startled breath.
“Dear Jesu,” Ansel started to breathe, as the full horror hit him.
But Tavis could not allow him time to think about it here.
“This has all been carefully orchestrated, don’t you see?” he whispered. “It has to be the reason that all the regents are conveniently away tonight—and especially all the MacInnises. If foul play is even suspected, they all have an alibi.”
“But, why?” Ansel asked. “What did a twelve-year-old girl ever do to deserve—”
“She was alive, Ansel! Think about it. Now that she’s dead, her older sister is sole heiress of Kierney—a very valuable marriage prize for young Master Iver MacInnis! I’d wondered how they planned to work that out, with co-heiresses, but it never occurred to me that they’d murder a child.”
Impulsively Ansel glanced at the still-sleeping Richeldis.
“Let’s steal Richeldis, then,” he said. “At least we can foil that part of their plan.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Tavis snapped. “If we did that, she’d be attainted, the same way you were, and all the Kierney lands would escheat to the Crown on Iain MacLean’s death—which you can be sure would come quickly, or his attainder—and Iver MacInnis would still get Kierney. We’ve lost this one, Ansel. Let’s get out of here, before we lose us, too.”
“But—”
In less than a heartbeat, Tavis surged his mind across the bond of flesh again and touched the triggerpoint in Ansel’s mind, at once blocking all his Deryni abilities and setting irresistible compulsions to obey.
Sorry, Ansel, but we’re leaving, he ordered. I haven’t time to argue with you. Now, move!
Disobedience was not possible, even though Tavis removed the block to Ansel’s powers as soon as his compulsions were in place. Ansel moved, his body guiding him to the door with smooth, silent precision, even as his mind raged at Tavis for what he had done—for the Healer had left him with all memory of the event. In unshakable physical harmony, the two eased open the door and slipped back down the corridor, making their way stealthily toward the King’s Tower and its haven of the Portal. So they might have continued without incident, had they not rounded the last bend but one and nearly ran into the arms of two surprised guards.
All four men froze for just an instant. Tavis managed to avert his face before either of their adversaries could get a good look at him, thrusting his handless wrist behind him and dashing in to grasp the nearer of the guards by the neck. The man crumpled before his sword could even clear its scabbard.
But Ansel was not so fortunate. Armed with only a dagger, his offense quickly became a frantic parry as the other guard made a wild slash in his direction with one of the biggest swords Tavis had ever seen. Ansel managed to deflect the first blow, the steel ringing against stone in a tocsin that surely must have roused the entire Valoret garrison, but the second connected with the sickeningly solid thud of a butcher’s cleaver in flesh, opening a broad gash in Ansel’s left thigh that cut clear to the bone.
Ansel could not even cry out. The very force of the blow left him breathless, though the first, numbing shock changed immediately to fire as the leg buckled under his weight and blood fountained from his thigh. As he clutched at a wound almost too wide to span with both his hands, blood-slick dagger falling forgotten as the hot blood spurted between his fingers, it hardly mattered that in that instant Tavis had managed to dart in and put Ansel’s opponent out of commission with more Deryni magic.
“Jesu, we’ve got to get out of here!” Tavis gasped, taking a quick, disbelieving look at Ansel’s leg as he seized his arm and urged him to his feet. “Come on!” He brushed the wounded man’s forehead with his stump, blocking both Ansel’s powers and his pain. “Put the pain aside!” he ordered. “You have to walk, no matter what it costs. I’ll help you. Let’s go!”
And the pain was gone, though crucial muscles were cut, and Ansel could not manage more than an awkward shuffle. How they made it down the turnpike stair of the King’s Tower, Ansel never knew; only that suddenly he was sitting in a growing puddle of his own blood at Tavis’ feet, on the stinking floor of the garderobe Portal, and Tavis was clasping his head between bloody hand and stump and willing him to surrender, to give over control—and Ansel gladly obeyed, no longer caring that his life’s blood was pooling around him, and his consciousness receding, even if Tavis’ controls had not been taking him … elsewhere.