P. N. Elrod & Nigel Bennett - His Father's Son

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His Father’s Son

Nigel Bennett and P. N. Elrod

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or

incidents is purely coincidental.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN: 0-671-31981-7

Cover art by Jaime Murray

First printing, April 2001

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Bennett, Nigel, 1949–

His father’s son / by Nigel Bennett & P.N. Elrod

p. cm.

ISBN 0-671-31981-7

1. Vampires—Fiction. I. Elrod, P.N. (Patricia Nead) II. Title.

PR9199.3.B3782 H57 2001

813’.54—dc21 00-065092

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

To Michael & Sam

with thanks to:

Charles Ballard

Gail Hassell Forestieri

Kath Henebry

Nancy Hill

Nick Marcelja

Helen Mesquita

remembering:

Deborah Heinrichs &

Vashti of the Flaming Tresses—Ruth Woodring

and a special thanks to:

Teresa Patterson & Kevin Topham

Baen Books in this series:

Keeper of the King by Nigel Bennett & P.N. Elrod

His Father’s Son by Nigel Bennett & P.N. Elrod

Quincey Morris, Vampire by P.N. Elrod (forthcoming)

Chapter One

Normandy, the Beginning

He awoke in a meaningless half light that could have been dawn or dusk, and in all truth it did not matter.

His eyes pierced the gloom easily; to him the inside of her tent was as bright as day. He lay on fur and

beneath fur, and the small of his back was wet with sweat. He shifted sleepily and became aware of her

next to him. He turned his head and saw she had her back toward him, only partly covered by the stifling

fur. Her dark hair, long and lustrous, tumbled away from her shoulders and across the pillows. The side of

her neck was bare, and his gaze followed the line of her body from that point, over the rise of her shoulder

along the slope of her side and up the sudden sharp rise of her hip. By the slow steady beat of her heart she

was still sleeping.

He smiled at the memory of the long hours of love and passion and pure pleasure with her. He’d lost

count of how often they’d coupled and ridden together toward that little death, surrendering willingly to it.

Each time he’d thought it the ultimate ecstasy, and each new encounter had proved him wrong. They’d

kissed and tasted and sucked and stroked. Their sweat and juices had mingled; every moment was perfect.

He reached out and caressed her thick, heavy hair, absently straightened it, smoothing it down, and yet

his touch was so light, so gentle that she did not wake. Her skin was alabaster cool and delicate as that of a

babe, and he traced her spine with a finger down to the deep cleft between her cheeks. He cupped their

firmness, then slipped his hand around to the flat wonder of her belly, and her thatch of dark curls. She was

still wet, and as he stroked, a soft low moan escaped her.

He hardened quickly and feeling it, laughed under his breath in surprise at the strength of his desire. He

pressed closer and buried his face in her hair. It smelled of blossom and earth and sky and moonlight, and

he breathed in deep. He was fully erect now, hard along her spine, and she pushed back against him,

shifting her legs. Without effort, he was in her, once more held in her sweetness, and he closed his eyes and

gasped at the feeling, at the warmth, at the sense of wholeness.

She moaned aloud now and as one, they began to slowly move against each other, caught up in the

rhythm of creation. She did not open her eyes. Perhaps she slept still, and this was all a dream to her. He

did not know. One of her breasts filled his questing hand, hard-nippled, compelling, and he found himself

pushing deeper, deeper into her. All his being was centered on her, her every reaction to his touch. They

moved together so slowly, so languidly.

Sweat seeped from his brow and disappeared into her hair. He kissed the soft nape of her neck, tickling

the fine skin there with his tongue. Lips parted, she murmured something; it sounded like a prayer. Her

hands pressed against his as he held her, enjoining him to further exploration. He took his time, touching and

fondling, until her breath came short and fast, grew harsh with desire. He brought her right to the edge of it,

then without warning the animal took him as well. A desperate urgency seized his being, and he thrust

harder into her slick wetness, anticipating the coming explosion, wanting it, needing it. In her sleep she

pushed back, equally urgent, arching against him. He was so deep inside her, yet felt himself opening,

spreading wide as a rose in the sunlight. Then, spasming, quite out of control, at one with his spirit, and out

of his body, he burst within her. Once more she moaned, this time from fulfillment, not longing, and he

glimpsed a smile as it flicked across her sleeping face.

Dear Goddess, could there be any greater pleasure?

And inside his head came an answering voice, clear as church bells on a summer’s day.

No.

They slept together, he still inside her, softening slowly, until they were once again apart. Yet he held her

close, she, he, they, as one in their shadowy heaven.

He dreamed, and in his dream, she came to him, held his face gently in her hands, and spoke. “It will be

ever thus, my love, ever thus. I am of thee and thou of me. We are truly one and will never sunder.”

He smiled in his sleep, and as she watched him, eyes wide in the darkness, a single tear slid down

Sabra’s cheek and melted into the pillow.

The thick oaken doors of the great hall of the Castle Orleans creaked open on their mighty hinges,

swirling the smoke-laden air into delicate spirals that disappeared upward into the fading golden light of

sunset, and Richard d’Orleans strode through. The rushes on the stone flags crackled under his boots as

two weary servants hauled hard and pulled the doors slowly shut again, sealing him in the vast, dim space.

He pushed back the thick protective hood of his long cloak and looked about at the wreckage of triumph.

The smell that arose all around him would have given many a man cause to retch. The feasting after the

great tourney had gone on for several days; the floor was littered with rotting food, spilled wine, pools of

vomit. None of the scullions had yet attempted any cleaning. They’d indulged as liberally as any. The

collective sickness pressed heavily upon the whole of the stagnant keep. Richard noted and ignored its

near-physical presence, immersed as he was in his own thoughts and fears.

He’d been summoned by his father, Duke Montague d’Orleans. Sabra had insisted that he answer to the

old man, and Richard could no more refuse her than stay his breathing. So he’d dressed in the fine linen and

leather that she’d laid out for him with her own hands, kissed her chastely on the forehead, and gone for her

sake, not the duke’s.

As things stood now, he had no need to obey the savage old despot ever again. So far as Richard was

concerned, he was free of him, of all the past, free of everything except his loathing for it.

How mightily his life had changed since the great tourney, since his ignominious defeat at the hands of

that damned boy. Only a few days had passed, yet in that time Richard d’Orleans had been—quite

literally—reborn into a new and never-ending life. While he waited in the empty room, looking idly at

familiar tapestries covering the cold stone walls, the events of the past few days came back to him with

startling clarity. From the depths of defeat and despair he’d risen to a fresh beginning given to him by his

lady, Sabra of the Lake. He was changed, from mere mortal to something much more.

His heart raced, and he caught his breath at the thought. The impossibility of it was almost too much to

take in, but on his left hand he bore the undeniable truth that it had indeed happened to him. His third finger

had been severed by a dagger thrust at the tourney, but because of his change a healing such as he’d never

imagined had taken place, magically reversing the maiming. Though the scar that went around the base of

his mended finger was not like to go away, he felt no twinge of pain from it. Indeed, its white ring was

constant and absolute proof that no injury could truly harm him, that no enemy could ever strike him down

again. He had inhuman strength and the skill to use it to withstand anyone now. He clenched his restored

hand into a fist and smiled openly as the raw power surged within him. He was what he’d always longed to

be: a true champion, afraid of none, invincible, free.

Yet there was a price to pay. Sunlight was now his enemy, as too was flowing water. He discovered

that the first day after his change; Sabra had warned that these would kill him if he lingered in either for too

long. Like her, he was a creature more of night than day, a creature of earth and darkness and shadow like

the Hounds of Annwyn, their progenitors.

But the most important, and most dangerous, price of all was that his appetite, too, had changed. Like

Sabra, like all their kind, he drank blood and only blood to live.

Richard d’Orleans was vampire.

This utterly set him at odds to all that he’d been taught; he’d become a depraved thing to be feared,

abhorred, and destroyed. Blood was precious, sacred, not to be spilled or taken by such monsters.

Or so he’d always been told.

We are not monsters, he thought with quiet certainty. No mindless beast could love as he loved Sabra,

as she loved him. No evil could possibly abide in her, nor would she allow it near her. That being so, then he

was not as others might see him, but something well beyond their limits. They would only perceive him as

an unnatural threat though, and act according to the dictates of their fears. Abso-lute secrecy was

necessary for his survival against such deadly ignorance, but it seemed a small enough price to pay for what

he’d gained. He was a servant of the Goddess now, a protector of her ways. So long as he was careful and

kept silent about the truth behind his new existence, he was ageless and deathless. That was the Goddess’s

gift to him, bestowed through his beautiful Sabra.

They’d awakened together the day before from a long afternoon of sleep and fleshly enjoyment in the

shelter of her pavilion, but this time Richard’s first thought and desire was not for more love.

“You hunger, do you not?” Sabra had asked, raising up on one elbow in their bed to look down at him.

“I feel its hold upon me.” He ran a hand over his face and lightly touched his corner teeth. They were

not extended yet, though he felt the potential to do so tingling in their roots.

“But not as strongly as that first craving?”

“Nay, ’tis but a shade to it, but still . . .” He licked his dry lips, recalling the first glorious red rush of

fulfillment he’d taken from the veins of one of Sabra’s servants. The old eunuch had given up his life that

Richard might live, given it up to be with the Goddess they all served. “Must I kill again to satisfy this

need?” Though troubled by the prospect, he was willing to do so if it meant a never-ending eternity with

Sabra.

“But surely not,” she replied, smiling at his concern. “Killing each time we must feed would call attention

to us, and we would be hunted down and killed ourselves by those who have the knowledge. There is a

simple way to satisfy our wants and a pleasing one. I will show you.”

Sabra rose from their nest of cushions and wrapped herself in a long loose robe of the same rich brown

color as her hair. She went to the tent opening and untied the flap, carefully keeping clear of the rays of the

lowering sun that lanced through the cracks. She called to someone outside and soon a young servant girl

hurried in. Richard hastily covered his nakedness with a -blanket.

“This is Ghislaine, she has helped me many times,” said Sabra.

Ghislaine stood in a modest, respectful pose, hands folded and eyes down for the most part, but stealing

quick darting glances at her surroundings, at him. Richard could hear the swift patter of her heart. Sabra

crossed to her, putting an arm around her shoulders to lean close and whisper something, smiling as she did.

The girl flushed deep crimson and stifled a giggle, nodding.

Sabra whispered again, and the girl shuffled a curtsey at him, smiling coyly. Fresh as a peach, she could

not have been much past fifteen, but already had the fullness of a woman’s body. By her manner she

certainly possessed a woman’s experience of the flesh, yet at the same time she seemed to retain a

measure of innocence. Richard found the combination highly appealing and felt a predictable stirring within.

Sabra stepped away from the girl and gazed steadily at him. “Now you must tell her what you want.”

“What do you mean?”

“With your mind, with your words, you may beguile her to your will.”

“I-I know not how, my lady,” Richard began, but was stopped from further protest by Sabra’s piercing

stare. He could not look away. And then he heard her as clearly as if she had spoken to him, though she

had not, for he could well see that her lips did not move.

You have the power as I do. Her voice sounded in his head: warm, sweet, seductive. Will her to do as

you wish.

He blinked, recovering his own thoughts amid those she’d imparted to him.

Try, and learn in the trying, my Richard.

“But is this speaking to the mind not your own Gift of Sight?” he asked. “You told me I did not share in

that.”

“True, you do not,” she said aloud. “What I would have you master now is very like to it, though. It’s

part of your new -nature. You’re capable of bringing others to agreement with your desires. If you learn to

use it carefully and to your advantage, with prudence and wit, you will always be safe. No one will ever

suspect you differ from any other man, for you can put all such won-derings from their heads.”

He thought he understood what she wanted of him. He gestured at Ghislaine. “What must I do?” If she

followed the meaning of their talk, she gave no sign.

Bend your thoughts, your will upon her, Sabra whispered. Call her to you.

Facing the girl, he looked deep into her eyes, not knowing if it really would work. “Come to me,” he

murmured so softly that he had doubts she could have heard him. “Come, Ghislaine.”

With no change of expression, she glided toward him. Was she merely obeying her new master’s order

or truly responding to his will? He wasn’t sure.

“Sit beside me,” he said, testing. No servant, no matter what their ranking, would dare take their ease

thus in the presence of their betters, but Ghislaine did exactly that, sinking upon the cushions next to him as

though she owned them. He looked at Sabra, half smiling in wonder. “I did it.”

Indeed, my love. Now lull her to sleep.

With Sabra’s approval to bolster his confidence, he focused on Ghislaine and spoke soothingly, willing her

to submissiveness and finally slumber with his soft words. God, it was so easy. Her eyelids slipped shut, and

she slumped against him. He eased her down by his side on the cushions.

Sabra sat next to her as well, looking at him across the girl’s reclining form. Again, she spoke out loud.

“In the deepness of her throat or at the crook of her elbow, the blood flows close to the surface and is easy

to get to. There are many such places, but ’tis better to take from the arm when you can, for the marks you

leave will be less noticeable to others. Bite gently, and take only as much as you need. You will find you

want but little and seldom. It is rich elixir and filling.”

Richard lifted the unresisting girl’s arm, and pushed up the loose sleeve of her simple gown. The skin

was white and clear. Blue veins lay just below the surface, and he traced them with his fingertips. He could

smell the blood through her flesh. Unbidden, his corner teeth budded, long, sharp, wolflike, and he felt the

warm flush as his eyes reddened. His heart began to pound heavily with anticipation, and he could hear the

sound of another heart, Sabra’s, rising to match its rhythm.

Sabra’s voice purred in his ear, and she stroked the side of his face, her touch like fire. “She will feel

little, and what she does will be naught but pleasure, I assure you.”

For us both, my lady, he thought, lowering his head. He paused to taste the smooth young flesh, running

his tongue over the pulsing vein. As he did, Ghislaine’s breath became deep and ragged, her lips opening

slightly, showing even white teeth. Richard recognized arousal when he saw it and turned to Sabra, silently

questioning.

“Take her,” she urged, her own eyes gone red.

His teeth broke easily through the tender skin, and a gasp escaped the girl’s lips, followed by a long,

delectable moan. Blood gushed into his mouth, and eyes closed, he sucked hungrily. Ghislaine’s heartbeat

sounded like close thunder to him. His hand strayed to her chest to feel the throb of it as he fed. She shifted

under his touch, gasping again as his palm smoothed over the firm rise of one of her breasts. Through the

light fabric of her gown his thumb teased at her nipple. Not too surprised, he realized he was hard, erect.

He sought release by taking more blood.

The heat of it stole over him, more potent than the headiest wine. The sheer pleasure roaring through his

body was almost beyond bearing; he wanted to shout in celebration, but could not tear away, not yet. What

came out was a smothered groan of ecstasy.

Ghislaine writhed, drawing her legs up, pressing her head into the cushions. He felt her young body

trembling, then shuddering as he fed. Her back arched, and he had to hold her down. She breathed out the

name of the Goddess in her crisis, once, twice, before uttering a long wordless cry of exultation. The

tension abruptly departed from her, and with a little sigh, she went completely limp. Disturbing for a

moment, it gave him pause, but her heart still beat strongly; her blood still flowed to him.

He took in another fiery draught.

Sabra’s hand was on his shoulder, fingers digging into his bare flesh. Now was he able to break off,

lifting away to open his eyes. Sabra’s dark head was bowed over the girl’s other arm as she drank from the

same fount. The sight excited him in a manner he’d never known before. He instantly understood what he

wanted to do next, but wasn’t certain how to bring it about.

As if in response to his thought, Sabra raised herself, her blood-flushed gaze meeting his before sliding

down to his hard manhood showing beneath the blanket.

No use trying to deny it. “Forgive me, my lady, I—”

There is nothing to forgive. She leaned forward, her warm lips brushing his like a butterfly’s wings.

She left behind the taste of Ghislaine’s blood.

“Have you had enough?” she asked, drawing his blanket clear.

“No,” he answered, decisively reaching for her. He stripped away the robe and lifted her small body

effortlessly, pulling her right across the slumbering Ghislaine and onto him. Her legs straddled his hips and

she gasped as he entered her. She fell forward upon his chest. His mouth on hers, he kissed and licked at

the blood there until it was quite gone.

Not enough.

He was aflame like a fever victim. This was no languorous, dream-filled lovemaking, but a primitive and

frenzied coupling, as needs he’d never been aware of took him over. Sabra seemed caught up in it as well

as her kisses became deeper, more intense, more fierce. She rode against him with bruising force, nails

clawing his chest. Then her mouth fastened on his throat, and he felt the sharp dent of her teeth breaking

his skin. He pressed her close, panting as she drank. It was almost the same as when she’d killed him to

bring about his change, only this time he stayed gloriously awake as his red life went into her.

She suddenly drew back, eyes shut, her body convulsing in time to his thrusts. He watched her face,

reveling in her rapture, taking it for his own. When her moans ceased, he pulled her close again, pushing her

head to one side to make taut the skin of her neck. His mouth yawned, his teeth piercing one of her surface

veins, and he drew hard at the wounds until all that he’d shared rushed back to him again. It overwhelmed

all his senses, stealing away the last of his control. Then came his own explosive release as his seed drove

into her; the combined impetus of it and the blood gusted through him like a firestorm. It swept him up and

out of himself, his soul tumbling helplessly in the searing heat.

The last thing he heard in the chaos was his own laughter as he embraced the red wind.

Sabra’s lithe body gradually slipped away from his, leaving him sprawled on the cushions, puffing and

slick with sweat, invigorated and at the same time exhausted. She lay next to him, -apparently in much the

same state. With a lazy hand he touched his throat. It was sticky with fresh blood, but completely healed.

He saw Sabra’s skin had also knitted, wholly unmarked but for a few telltale smears. Some minutes later

she recovered first and sat up to examine the still sleeping Ghislaine.

“Is it well with her?” he asked drowsily. “She is not hurt?”

“The wounds are small and bled little once we were finished. Mind that you always cleanse them

afterward, yourself as well.” Sabra got up, drawing her robe on again and went to a table holding a slender

wine vessel to pour some onto a square of cloth. She used it to wash away the stains on her lips and throat,

then tended to those marring the girl’s arms. “Fresh water from a swift stream or rain will do, but wine is

best; the sting prevents the flesh from corrupting. Fill a cup for her; she’ll need a restorative.”

Richard rolled slowly to his feet and did as he was bidden, handing the cup to her, then followed her

example and cleaned himself. He found and pulled on a long tunic before dropping onto the bed again.

Sabra touched the girl gently on the side of her face, speaking her name. Ghislaine’s eyes fluttered open,

and she looked about with some confusion, then alarm, struggling to rise.

“My lady, I’m sorry, I did not mean to—”

“Hush, child,” she said, keeping her in place. “’Tis natural. Rest yourself a moment. Lord Richard

is”—she glanced at him, the light of mischief in her eyes—“a demanding man. Drink this, then you may go

to your supper and bed. You’re excused from your -duties until the morrow.”

Sabra’s soothing voice had its effect on the girl, and Ghislaine obediently emptied the wine cup, her gaze

straying over its rim to Richard. He wasn’t sure how he should respond to what looked to be nascent

adoration, and tentatively settled on a smile and nod of appreciation. Apparently it was enough; Ghislaine

finished, curtsied low to them both, and departed without another word, leaving him alone with Sabra.

“Will she not speak of this?” he asked.

“She will remember little of what happened here, simply that you and she gave each other pleasure.”

Sabra’s gaze wandered to his still ample manhood outlined under the thin cloth. “A great portion of

pleasure, it seems.”

He began to blush at his body’s betrayal of his still-active desire. “Forgive me, my lady, she means

nothing to me, I assure you. I know not why it happened.”

“You may say you know not, but I do, sweet Richard. It is our nature to enjoy their lives and flesh in all

ways, and I take joy in your delight. She is a pretty creature, after all, deserving of appreciation.”

“You are not jealous?”

“No more than you should be of me when the blood calls to my hungers . . . all my hungers.”

That gave him pause, the implication being that of Sabra feeding from another man. Richard didn’t care

for the idea, but had no wish to spoil the moment. Better to deal with the subject later. He pulled Sabra

back to the comfort of their bed, wrapping his arms protectively around her as she lay her head on his

-shoulder.

“Will all my feedings be thus?” he asked, murmuring into her thick hair. It smelled of flowers.

“Not always. I thought your first one should be memorable, though.”

“My lady is the soul of kindness.”

“Sometimes you may feast slowly, others will be catch-as-may as you go along with no time for

dalliance. No matter what befalls, make certain the one you choose remains unaware, and that none chance

to see you. It could mean your death.”

He grunted in short reply, knowing the truth of it. The consequences of what had transpired over the last

hour had anyone observed them did not bear contemplation. “I will take care, I promise.”

“One other thing, and mark this well: beware of attachments to them, my love.”

“What mean you?”

“These fragile children abide with us but a little while and then are gone, and I would not have thee

heartsick from the loss. You are ever my true love, and I yours. We two will endure long after Ghislaine is

dust. That is the way. That is why the Goddess chose thee, for strengths even you may not yet know about

yourself.”

“Then you must tell me about them, sweet lady.”

“When the time allows . . . and we have more of time than anything else.”

Certainly while waiting in the empty feast hall away from Sabra’s intoxicating presence Richard had had

an abundance of it to think everything through. He was mildly surprised to determine that from a loss that

should have saddened him, a transformation that should have terrified him, a craving that should have

disgusted him, he could see nothing but goodness and bold promise for his future.

His eternal future . . . with Sabra.

He shut his eyes, holding the wondrous image close lest it fly away from him in this chill and hollow

place.

But his gladness was interrupted when an apologetic servant hurried into the room bearing a single

candle and placed it on the table. Richard’s vision was such that he’d not noticed how dark it had gotten.

“Does the duke summon me yet?” he asked, staying the man’s excuses for being late.

“I know naught of it, Lord Richard,” he said, ducking his head. “Do you wish anything?” Cold was

settling in for the night and the man shivered in his tattered clothes. The castle was always cold, even this

far into spring.

“I thank you, but no. Be off to your bed.”

He stared at Richard for a moment.

Richard met his gaze calmly, but felt a twinge of doubt within. Does he see the change in me?

If he did, he kept it to himself and quickly departed the way he’d come, leaving the door ajar. As he

hastened along, Richard’s sensitive hearing followed the whisper of his footsteps, probably back to the

stinking smoky warmth of a pallet by the kitchen hearth.

Then another kind of sound came forth from the entry and suddenly two of the castle’s great hounds

bounded noisily into the feasting hall to scavenge the leavings. They were huge hunting beasts, and Richard

knew them both well; he’d been right there in the stable at their whelping. He’d watched their growth from

clumsy pups to graceful adults and trained them himself for the chasing down of game in the forests.

They’d often been his only companions for many long weeks at a time. Of all things and people living in his

father’s castle, these hounds were the only souls he could trust and count as friends.

He clapped his hands and gave a short whistle. “Merlin! Prince!”

The two dogs checked in mid-bound, recognizing the voice, looking around for its owner in the dimness.

“Prince! Merlin! Here, lads, here.” Richard stepped forward, hands out as the animals whined an

anxious greeting and tore over the flags toward him, tongues lolling as though from laughter. “Come to heel,

come on.”

Merlin reached him first. Richard was almost close enough to touch the massive head, but paused at an

unexpected shift in the dog’s reaction to him. Merlin froze an instant, then backed away so quickly that he

blundered into Prince, halting him in turn.

Both dogs milled in confusion, sniffing and growling at Richard before settling into a guarded stance. The

hair along their backs stood straight on end, and they lowered their heads threateningly. With ears laid flat,

teeth bared and snarling, they were primed for the kill.

Instinctively, Richard backed away, hefting a heavy wooden stool as defense. The dogs had recognized

him; what was wrong? Had they gone mad, inexplicably perceiving him as an enemy? He’d seen the

damage that these two could inflict many times and wanted none of it. Who had turned them against him?

He spoke their names again, firmly, not letting the alarm he felt color his voice. Instead, he brought to his

tone all the displeasure he could muster, slamming the stool on the floor with a bang. He held fast to it,

though, in case his ploy at dominance failed.

The noise startled them, and his voice seemed to break through before they could charge. First one then

the other stopped and began to whine piteously, eyes averted, as though afraid to look at him. They spun

around uncertainly, tails between their legs, urinating in fright. Richard lowered the stool and took a step

forward, speaking softly. Perhaps his new clothing had masked his familiar scent. But the dogs backed

away from him, yelping with fear, then turned tail and fled.

He stared open-mouthed at their retreat, then belatedly understood the why of it. With the cold breath of

the Hounds of Annwyn forever upon him, what other reaction could he expect from ordinary canines?

Merlin and Prince had sensed the difference all too sharply. What surprised Richard was the enormity of

the hurt he felt from their unexpected rejection. Sabra had not warned him about this particular price for his

change.

Perhaps this won’t be as easy as I thought.

He released his hold on the stool and finally seated himself on it rather than pace the filthy floor. He

stared at the entry where the dogs had retreated, mourning their loss. He’d have had to leave them behind,

anyway, for all in the castle and lands around -belonged to the duke, but this wasn’t the sort of parting

-Richard might have wished for.

Richard had tenuously held his place in the household by strength of arms, bringing honor to the family

name with each victory. That had ended with his defeat at the tourney, though, and he knew exactly why

he’d been summoned. It was time for the duke to give his hated child a final censure and banish -Richard

from his house with less consideration and far more rancor than would be heaped upon the lowliest of the

servants.

Richard watched the shadows cast by the candle flame twist and jump in the draughty air, remembering

how he’d snapped a curt dismissal to the duke’s command in Sabra’s pavilion earlier that day.

“You must go,” she told him.

“I think not.” Richard had no desire to forsake her safe, dark sanctuary for a walk in the burning sun

only to face his father’s own searing wrath at the end of it.

“You must. It is necessary.”

“Is it not enough that I’ve endured a lifetime of abuse and humiliation from him? Can we not simply

leave for Britain?”

“For one, you must obtain his release from your oath of service to him. Without it he has the right to hunt

you down like an escaped serf.”

He ground his teeth, for she was perfectly correct. “And for another?”

“We few of us know how to properly say farewell.” Sabra held his hand in hers as she spoke. “It is a

necessary and important thing. It is the finishing of the round. Without it, whatever we do from then on can

be flawed. Like it or no, he is your father; he is in you always. You owe yourself that acknowledgment and

the closing of the circle.”

Richard started to protest that he could not remember a single occasion upon which Montague d’Orleans

had behaved in any way like a father, but stopped, realizing the humble truth of her words. “He will belittle

me.”

“That he will.”

“And he will shame me and say that I am no son of his. I know it.”

“And you are right.”

Richard thought for a moment and turned her hand over in his, finally kissing her palm. “Does your Sight

tell you what will happen, what will come of this?”

Sabra did not answer.

“Does it?”

The look in her brown eyes as she regarded him could melt the hardest stone. “Dear Richard, what is to

be will be. What will happen is within you. You’ll find it in your heart. You must be your own guide in this,

make your own path for right or wrong.”

“What is it you tell me? That I’ve a choice to make? What sort of choice?”

“I’ll say only that we often have to reach through the thorns to pluck the rose. There is always pain if we

choose to seize it. Just remem-ber that I am with you through all.” She loosed his hand and stepped back

from him. “Now go to your father. He has summoned you, and you must give him that one last obedience.”

He wanted to ask more, but knew she would not—or could not—answer. Her Sight was clear and

truthful, but sometimes it revealed too much, showing her more than one future, each depen-dent upon

actions made in the present.

Perhaps that was what awaited him. If so, then might he not make a mistake, choose the wrong path?

The wrong future?

She’d raised herself on her toes to kiss him lightly on the mouth, and he returned it, pressing his lips to

her brow. He wrapped his heavy cloak close to shield his vulnerable skin from the sun and left.

And now here in the darkness, lit by a single sputtering candle he sat, waiting to discover the meaning of

her words. Out of love for her and trust in her wisdom and judgment he could put himself through one more

hour of his father’s malice, though not much more than that. Richard had his limits.

Most of that hour had passed already, according to the tolling of the church bell. It was full night and

vespers had come and gone by now, though it was doubtful that the chapel had been very full. Perhaps a

few had attended to pray for recovery from their revels.

How like his father to keep him waiting thus. It was a very old game he played, and he never tired of it:

Summon the despised son, then keep him without. It was an obvious insult, one he’d seen his father use

often and to great effect. Richard might be here for hours, even all night if it pleased the duke.

This is the last time for me. It must be the last time.

Finally giving in to a portion of impatience, Richard stood and stretched and paced once around the great

room. He realized that he did not need the candle. He could see quite well, indeed. The change in his vision

was such that this darkness was very much like day. Turning back to the candle, its small light seemed

almost as bright as a bonfire.

The moon had risen, the silver-blue glow pouring through the high windows, creeping its way down the

wall opposite to make the tapestries and banners there shimmer. It was so beautiful. Everything was

heightened since his transformation. He could see more, smell more, feel more. The sounds of the night

from both within and without the castle came to him very clearly when he paid mind to them. He cocked his

head toward the entry but could pick up nothing to indicate his wait was ending. True, he could cut this

nonsense short by bulling into the duke’s sanctum, but past experience made him reluctant to try. The old

man was king in everything but name here, with the power of life and death over all. To incur his wrath

was to risk dire punishment. Richard had dared to cross him on this very point, once. The beating he’d

gotten some dozen years past had left an indelible impression on his spirit long after the bruises healed. The

lesson stuck.

He could beat me now—could try—for all the good it would do him.

The power of his dark rebirth surged through Richard once more, warming him. The past should

be—was—less than nothing to him. Perhaps that was what Sabra wanted him to learn from this. If so, then

he could do as he pleased with no fear of reprisal. But if not, and he made the wrong choice, whatever that

might be . . .

He decided he could wait a little longer.

He righted one of the long benches and sat at the table, idly toying with an abandoned trencher. There

was a time that he would have gladly picked at the remaining food, indeed, eaten his fill from the leavings

here, but not now, and never again.

Free. I am free of this.

A sudden noise from the doorway to his father’s inner chamber along the hall jolted Richard from his

musings, and he stood to meet his sire. The door down there opened sure enough, but all that came out was

a string of curses and the unmistakable scrabblings of the two terrified hounds. The dogs pelted into the

feast hall, seeking escape from the shouting and then from Richard, finding none. They finally took shelter

beneath one of the far tables, whimpering.

More cursing from the entry. A familiar voice, but not one belonging to a friend. Richard had no friends

here.

First the dogs, then another kind of cur arrived, as Dear Brother lurched into the vast room. Richard

braced inwardly, his face settling into the usual blank mask he tried to maintain when forced to deal with his

abrasive oldest sibling.

Ambert d’Orleans was the proud firstborn of the great lord, and had never let Richard forget it. At first

glance, he and Richard could have almost been twins, so similar were they. In their youth many had

mistaken them as such. Both over six feet in height, fair-haired, with icy blue eyes, and both strong and

valiant on the field—but that was in their youth. Their differences had grown with the passing years and

were not just those of physical change. Richard could look at himself and without blush know he was

principled and intelligent with a strong sense of honor; Ambert, on the other hand, was ever a bully and a

braggart and, worst of all, a cunning backstabber. Richard had learned the best way to deal with him was

simple avoidance whenever possible.

Excess in all things was beginning to take its toll on Ambert, for his belly now far exceeded his chest in

girth. He had to balance carefully as he made his way into the dim hall, pausing at the head of the table. His

once handsome face was bloated and red from too much wine and fits of temper, and his fine blue eyes

were rheumy and bloodshot. His bleared gaze quickly fastened on Richard, regarding him with the usual

measure of contempt, Ambert’s idea of a superior look.

He bore a goblet in hand, and swaying a little, extended it imperiously in Richard’s direction. “Wine,

brother,” he said, as though addressing a servant. There was an open cask on the table before him, but he

made no move toward it.

Knowing the uselessness of argument, Richard crossed to him and took the goblet away. There being no

ladle, he tipped the cask with care. It was nearly empty and the wine threatened to spill as it slopped about.

He got it steady enough to control the pouring of a thin stream.

“Don’t stint with it, you fool.” Ambert shot his hand out and upset the cask. It was an old trick, the object

being to add stains to Richard’s clothing. The elegant new garments he wore now had obviously not

escaped Dear Brother’s notice; the temptation was irresistible. The result was different this time, though,

for Richard quickly moved out of the way, letting the thing crash to the floor. The wine flew in all directions,

a goodly amount of it splashing onto Ambert. He gasped and snarled, but only for a moment. The

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摘要：

HisFather’sSonNigelBennettandP.N.ElrodThisisaworkoffiction.Allthecharactersandeventsportrayedinthisbookarefictional,andanyresemblancetorealpeopleorincidentsispurelycoincidental.Copyright©2001byBillFawcett&AssociatesAllrightsreserved,includingtherighttoreproducethisbookorportionsthereofinanyform.ABae...

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P. N. Elrod & Nigel Bennett - His Father's Son

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