“Cinquefoil and poppy extract, for sleep. Wolfbane, a very minute amount, for Vision. And another drug known only to those of Healer’s training. I may not name it for you, but I promise it will not harm them. It will place them in a receptive state of mind for what must be done. You were given the same substance the night of your power assumption, though you may not remember it.”
Cinhil’s eyes glazed slightly, and Rhys knew that he was casting back in memory, reliving that night so long ago when a younger Cinhil had stood entranced in a magical circle and watched them prepare a cup; knew he was finally making the connection with the rain of white powder which had fallen from Camber’s fingers onto the surface of the magically charged wine, the wine which Cinhil had then been compelled to drink.
Cinhil blinked and shook his head slightly, and the spell of memory was broken. With a little shudder, the king glanced quickly at the fire.
“It is a Deryni drug, then?” he whispered.
“Yes.”
“But, it works on humans and Deryni, alike?”
“Not precisely alike. But unless activated by the kind of activity we plan tonight, it acts primarily as a sedative, gentle but insistent. I had thought to give it under the guise of a physick against colds. I am told that Alroy has been abed with coughing for much of the week, so we can surmise that the other boys are similarly inclined toward such ailments, and a physick will not be suspected. Also, it is safe enough that even if others should taste of it, it will only make them sleep.”
“Tell them you act on my authority, that I am concerned for their health,” Cinhil said softly. “And if the squires sleep in the boys’ chamber, they are to partake, as well.”
“I understand,” Rhys said. “What of Tavis O’Neill? I am told by Jebediah that he and Javan are inseparable these days.”
“You are a Healer and his senior,” Cinhil said shortly. “Can you not govern him?”
“I can try. But he is a Healer. If he inspects the ‘physick,’ he will know something is amiss. This is no remedy for colds, as he will well know.”
Stonily Cinhil turned his face back toward the fireplace.
“Then he must drink, too. And you must erase all memory that aught is amiss. You are a Healer. I leave it in your hands, Rhys.”
“Very well. There is nothing further I can say to persuade you to rest?” he asked.
“There is nothing.”
With a deep sigh, Rhys started to turn and go, but then he saw Cinhil begin getting to his feet.
Grimly, Rhys helped him to stand, led him to a seat in the window embrasure where he might watch the fading western sky, and tucked a sleeping fur around the frail body to insulate against the cold radiating through the leaded glass.
“It will be my last sunset,” Cinhil explained wistfully, as Rhys adjusted the draperies to give him an unobstructed view. “One might have hoped for a less grey one, but any is better than none.”
Rhys could not trust himself to answer that. Swallowing a lump which had been building in his throat for the past few minutes, he bowed profoundly, touching the king’s hand in understanding, then turned and fled the chamber.
He found a scene of unexpected tranquillity when he entered the nursery suite, and the contrast was soothing to emotions as keenly edged as his had been in the last hour. Rushlights had been lit to dispel the gloom of the gathering dusk, and the princes were just finishing their baths, in preparation for supper and an early bed.
The boys had outgrown their childhood nurses the summer before, those stalwart and loyal ladies having been replaced by a corps of eager young squires of suitably noble birth and a brace of royal governors appointed by the king. The former, most of them hardly older than their young charges, saw to the business of dressing, serving meals, and otherwise assisting their masters in learning the manners and mannerisms befitting young gentlemen and princes. The latter were gone now, the day’s lessons done. And though the close proximity of so many boys and very young men at times became more than a little raucous, tonight that was not the case.
Huddled sleepily beside the fireplace in the main dayroom, a yawning Prince Alroy was nursing a cup of warm milk laced with wine. His squire combed the raven hair as it dried by the fire’s heat. The eldest prince was already dressed for bed, long white woolen nightshirt covered by a fur-lined dressing gown of crimson wool. Matching slippers embroidered with the Haldane lions showed beneath the hem of the gown. The boy’s thin shoulders were hunched down in the fur against the cold.
From behind a lattice screen at the far side of the fireplace, Rhys could hear the childish exclamations of the youngest, Rhys Michael, apparently disputing the entrapment of his head and arms inside his nightshirt while his squire tried to free him. Said squire, a lanky, good-natured youth of only a few more summers than his young master, could be seen towering head and shoulders above the top of the screen, his adolescent face creased in a grin as he labored to extract the royal hands and head from their fabric prison, roughhousing to an extent he would not have dared with the more delicate Alroy or the serious Javan.
As for Javan, Rhys had to look for him at first, but then spotted the crippled prince seated quietly in a nearby window embrasure with Tavis O’Neill, a glowing charcoal pot at their feet. Javan seemed oblivious to what went on in the rest of the room, eyes closed, his hands resting open-palmed on his knees and covered lightly by Tavis’s. Even from where he stood, Rhys could discern the high energy level surrounding both of them, and surmised that Tavis was working some kind of healing with his young charge.
Just then, Alroy noticed Rhys’s arrival and put aside his cup of milk, smiling tentatively, the grey eyes bright and a little feverish-looking.
“Lord Rhys!” he called, his words eliciting a cough which sounded of nerves as much as any physical ailment.
His greeting resulted in a squeal of delight from behind the screen and then the launching of a small, shirt-clad body into Rhys’s arms, staggering the Healer with the force of his arrival.
“Lord Rhys! Did you come to have supper with us?”
Rhys hugged his namesake and tousled the dark hair gently. “Thank you, I’ve already eaten. Now, get back to your squire and get dressed before you catch cold like your brother.”
As Rhys Michael scurried to obey, Rhys moved closer to Alroy, who had hung his head at Rhys’s words. Lightly he touched the boy’s forehead to check for fever.
“And how are you this evening, Your Highness?” he asked easily. “Your father tells me that you’ve not been well this week.”
Alroy flashed a wan, tentative smile and cleared his throat, trying to muffle another cough. “I am well enough, Lord Rhys. Sometimes I cough a lot, but I’m better than I was last winter.”
“You feel a little feverish.”
“It’s the fire,” Alroy insisted, moving a little back from the flames. “I’m better. Really, I am.”
With a smile, Rhys took one of the prince’s hands lightly in his own, extending his senses, then shook his head lightly and dropped it.
“You’re better than last winter,” he agreed, “but you’re not well enough. I think it’s early to bed for all of you tonight, and a physick against colds to boot.”
“Oh, Rhys—”
“Now, none of that,” Rhys countered, gently but insistently. “I assure you, it’s tasteless. I’ll tell you what, though. We’ll make it in the nature of a special treat.” He glanced at Alroy’s squire. “Gavin, while Their Highnesses are at supper, would you go down to the wine cellar and bring up a flask of that sweet Fianna wine, please? You’ve all been wanting to taste it, and His Grace said it would be all right just this once.”
Young Gavin’s grin was like sunlight in the gloomy room.
“I’ll go right now, m’lord. I’d even take a physick for the chance to sample that wine!”
“Then, you shall have that chance,” Rhys grinned, slapping the boy on the shoulder and sending him off toward the door. “Go and bring it, and a br
ace of cups, and we shall all sample.”
“You’re sure it won’t taste nasty?” Rhys Michael asked dubiously.
Rhys gave a good-natured chuckle. “I promise. Now, tell me how your studies are progressing, child-of-my-name. Here, you can sit on my knee and make a full report.”
Smiling broadly, Rhys Michael took the seat offered and began rattling off a list of the things he had been learning since he and the royal Healer had last visited. In the next room, Rhys could hear the sounds of the supper being laid, the voices of the servants setting the table and laying out the food. After a few minutes, a servant finally announced that supper was ready. The two boys immediately scampered into the other room, followed shortly by an annoyed-looking Javan, who eyed the elder Healer suspiciously as he passed. When the boys had said grace and begun eating, Rhys drew back into the common room and turned toward Tavis. The younger Healer had not moved from his seat in the window.
“Is Javan ill?” Rhys murmured.
Tavis shook his head cautiously. “No, not ill. He is not strong, though. I try to give him energy each day.”
“That is admirable,” Rhys replied, “but is it in the boy’s best interests? He will not always have you there to help him.”
“I know that.” Tavis looked away, trying to hide the pain in his pale eyes.
“Tavis,” Rhys asked softly, “are you aware of what must be the destiny of these boys? Cinhil is dying, and Alroy will succeed him, almost certainly as a minor.”
“Alroy is the eldest. That is his right.”
“He is also the weakest,” Rhys continued. “I hesitate to say it, but we Healers must face realities, even if others will not. Alroy may not live long enough to get an heir. And if he does not, then the crown falls to Javan. If you make him dependent upon you, how will he bear that weight when you are gone?”
Tavis’s head shot up in challenge.
“I shall never leave him!” he whispered fiercely. “No one else cares for him. They think that because his body is flawed, his mind is likewise unfit. But he will show them, some day. I want that for him, Rhys.”
“If God wills that he someday may be king, then I want it for him, too,” Rhys replied. “But you must not shelter him so much that you stifle his growth.”
“It will not be I who stifle him,” Tavis retorted, a little defiantly, though he did not raise his voice.
With that, the younger Healer picked up a scroll from the seat beside him and began reading intently, not looking at Rhys any more. Rhys stood there for several seconds, then went back into the room to glance through some of the boys’ lessons lying on a table near the fireplace. He and Tavis had never been able to communicate very well.
Young Gavin returned with the wine just as the boys had finished their supper and were beginning to drift back into the room with the other two squires. All six boys watched with varied interest as Rhys pulled the folded packet of parchment from his belt pouch and tossed it onto the table.
“So, we have the grand physick against colds, to be taken in some of the finest Fianna wine ever to grace your father’s cellar.” With an exaggerated flourish, he unstoppered the green glass flagon and sniffed the contents, rolling his eyes appreciatively as the bouquet reached his nostrils. “Ah, marvelous! And let me tell you, I had a devil of a time convincing the King’s Grace that this would not be wasted on the untried palates of a gaggle of schoolboys. You’d better not make a liar of me, now.”
As they laughed, except for Javan, who merely grimaced, he took up the packet and broke its seal, then poured its contents carefully into the wine.
“Here are cups, m’lord,” Gavin announced, setting them out expectantly as Rhys swirled the flagon.
“Good. You’ve brought extras. Well, there’s enough for all of you,” Rhys said, half-filling six cups with the doctored wine. “This is a sweet wine, but light—one of the Fianna varietals. Go ahead and try it.”
The squires did not need to be invited a second time, though they did manage to restrain themselves from grabbing until their young masters had taken up their cups. Rhys Michael held his to his nose, sniffed it in imitation of Rhys with the flagon, then tasted and gulped it down. Alroy sampled his somewhat more conservatively, but he, too, clearly approved of the treat their father had allowed and quickly drank it to the dregs.
Only Javan seemed somewhat reluctant, casting a questioning glance at Tavis for reassurance before cautiously sampling it and then draining the cup resignedly.
So much for developing that one’s palate, Rhys thought ruefully, almost wishing he had left some of the wine unadulterated, for his own consumption. But of course, neither he nor any of the others who would be involved in tonight’s ritual had eaten or drunk anything since midafternoon, or would tonight.
He never saw the squires drink—only their empty cups and pleased smiles bearing mute witness to the fact that they, too, had partaken. When all the cups had been replaced on their tray, Rhys smiled and clapped his hands for them to be off to bed, following them affably into the sleeping chamber. He was aware of Tavis gliding down from the window seat toward the half-flagon of wine still remaining, and he made short work of his good-nights. The squires were nodding off, too, finding their sleeping pallets, as Rhys slipped back into the common room. He was not surprised to find Tavis waiting for him, accusation in his eyes.
“You lied,” Tavis whispered.
“I did?”
“That was no physick against colds,” Tavis continued, gesturing toward the flagon, eyes flashing like pale aquamarines in his anger. “You drugged them. You gave them enough cinquefoil to put them asleep until tomorrow. I could smell it! What are you up to?”
Mentally and physically steeling himself for what would probably have to be done, Rhys feigned a look of innocence and inserted himself casually between Tavis and the door.
“Up to?” Rhys replied. “Why, I’m simply following His Grace’s instructions, seeing that the children get a good night’s rest.”
“Rest in peace, more likely,” Tavis muttered, touching a fingertip to the dregs of one of the cups and tasting it analytically. “You won’t mind if I check with His Grace, will-what’s this? Wolfbane and mer—Rhys, you didn’t!”
His shields were up, his mind shuttered behind the impenetrable controls of a highly trained Healer, and Rhys knew he could not breach those defenses except against great resistance.
So before the younger man could react, Rhys stepped forward and slammed his fist into Tavis’s solar plexus, caught him as he collapsed to the floor with a startled whoof of expelled air.
“I’m afraid I did, my young friend,” Rhys whispered, snatching up the flagon of wine and holding it to Tavis’s lips as the man gasped for breath and tried to struggle back to control.
He forced Tavis to swallow the equivalent of a full cup of the drugged wine, amid choking and sputters of combined pain, indignation, and fear, then eased the younger Healer to a half-sitting position against one knee as he set the flagon back on the table. He watched sympathetically as Tavis regained his breath and the drugs began taking effect.
“I’m sorry I had to hit you, Tavis,” he murmured, laying a monitoring hand on Tavis’s forehead. “But it was necessary for you to drink, since you had the ill-fortune to be here tonight, and I doubted you would do so of your own accord.”
“But, why?” Tavis croaked out. “My God, Rhys, you’ve given them m-m-merasha!” Tavis managed to mumble, around a tongue which was fast growing too big for his mouth and losing its coherence. “And—and anhalon, merasha and a-a-anhalon, and they’re not even Deryni!”
“It has been done at His Grace’s command, and with his full knowledge,” Rhys said softly. “Beyond that, I may tell you nothing more. And even if I might, you wouldn’t remember … would you?”
Tavis’s gaze became a little more distant, his eyes less focused, and Rhys could easily follow the increasingly confused and slurred surface thoughts as Tavis tried to analyze his reactions and id
entify their causes.
But his shields were also melting away. Gradually, Rhys began to extend his control into the other’s mind, gently but surely, nudging the increasingly sluggish mind toward sleep and forgetfulness. Tavis gave token resistance, and a part of him raged that he should be so invaded against his will, but after the weakest of struggles, he succumbed to unconsciousness, totally at Rhys’s command.
Rhys, after carefully erasing what had just occurred, and inserting new memories to account for Tavis’s sleep, gently picked up the sleeping Healer and carried him to a pile of furs before the fireplace. Arranging him there amid a pile of pillows and covering him lightly with a sleeping fur, he laid Tavis’s scroll near his relaxed hand and checked the depth of his sleep a final time.
Then, after emptying the last of the drugged wine down the garde-robe shaft, and rinsing it and the cups with water from a ewer, he poured a little of the leftover table wine from dinner into the flagon and added yet another powder—this one truly a sleep-encouraging physick. A little of this he splashed into each of the cups, then emptied all into the garde-robe again. Now, even inspection of the dregs would not reveal what had been done.
Finally, he went to a tall wooden closet in the corner of the boys’ sleeping chamber and pressed a series of whorls and depressions in the heavy carving. A panel slid aside in the rear of the closet to reveal a bored-looking Joram sitting on the stone floor beyond, bundled closely in his Michaeline greatcloak. A narrow passageway stretched into darkness beyond him.
“It certainly took you long enough,” Joram whispered, getting to his feet and brushing dust from his posterior. “I thought you were going to find me a stiff, frozen statue. Everyone asleep?”
Rhys nodded. “Sorry for the delay. As I feared, Tavis was determined to stay about, so I had to drug him as well as the squires. He won’t remember anything in the morning, though. Come on. We’ll take the twins through first.”
CHAPTER SIX
Neglect not the gift that is in thee, which was given thee by prophecy, with the laying on of the hands of the presbytery.
The Legends of Camber of Culdi Trilogy Page 95