Queen of Sorrows--Part Three, Chapter Twelve

[Evie]

Previous chapter: https://rhemuthcastle.com/index.php/topic,3499.0.html


Chapter Twelve

June 19, 1465
The Palace at Horthánthy
The Hort's Apartment
Night

Lord Geoffrey and his protegée ended up returning to the secret passage for nearly an hour longer until they both felt certain that Lord Davorin had fallen sound asleep. In the meantime, the guards continued to make their regular patrols, but the intervals between them had grown slightly longer. That was to Geoffrey and Saoirse's advantage, if that trend continued, since it would give them a minute or two longer to get into the Hort's private bedchamber, take care of their business, and make their escape before the guard returned to their wing of the apartment block.

The long delay had given them sufficient time for Lord Geoffrey's temper to cool slightly. While they waited, he devised a modified plan for dealing with his son's murderer.

Once they had determined it was the perfect time to act, they waited until they heard the retreating footfalls of the guard leaving the Hort's antechambers before leaving their concealment and slipping down the corridor to the bedchamber door at the very end of it. Geoffrey did not dare extend his senses to check if the Hort was, in fact, fully asleep, for if the man was as cautious as Geoffrey was, he would likely awaken at the first hint of an unknown mind probing at or even brushing against his shields. But all was completely quiet on the other side of the door, so he began his work, tasking Saoirse to keep a watch out for any untimely interruption by the Palace guard as he set his hand on the door latch, visualizing the arcane symbol Lord Davorin's manservant had Mind-Shared with him as he turned it. The latch opened easily, the faint click of it barely audible in the silence.

Geoffrey waited another few breaths before stepping into the room, Saoirse following shadowlike behind him. He silently closed the door behind them. The usurper lay in the large, curtained Bed of State at the center of the room, facing away from them. The two Gwyneddans stealthily approached the side of the bed, Geoffrey walking slightly ahead of Saoirse with sword drawn in case Lord Davorin should suddenly awaken, wary for any sign of movement or change in the sleeping man's position. Saoirse's line of approach took her towards Lord Davorin's head while Lord Geoffrey's path veered slightly away from hers, heading towards the foot of the bed.

#

Something felt off. Lord Davorin awakened abruptly, remaining unmoving while he tried to assess what felt wrong.

Nothing seemed amiss at first, but then he saw it--the dark shape of a man silhouetted against the slightly less black darkness of the room. He sat up, calling up a fiery blast of energy from deep within himself in order to cast it at the intruder's form, or at least that was what he had meant to do. Instead, nothing happened. Instead, Lord Davorin felt slightly disoriented, his perceptions strangely dulled, as if some vital sense like sight or hearing had unexpectedly gone missing. After the briefest of moments, he realized what it was--he could no longer Sense the world around him.

The silhouette moved closer, one hand extended palm up towards him. It suddenly blazed with a pale violet fire, illuminating the face and form of a man he knew to be dead. He had killed the man himself, or at least he had disposed of the man's body. The Gwyneddan guard Jourdain, damn his hide, had already set a trigger in his own mind that had wiped his memory before shutting down the centers of his mind that kept him alive. Lord Davorin had looked forward to extracting the man's memories first before enjoying his slow and painful death, and both sources of satisfaction had been denied him. He remembered the young man all too well.

He realized the man before him was not Jourdain, but the illusion was extremely convincing. This, then, must be his sire, the suspected Gwyneddan intelligencer Lord Geoffrey Arilan.

He opened his mouth to call out for his guards, but no sound came out. Lord Davorin's confused alarm turned into fear.

Something touched the back of his head, then a movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he glanced that way, finding to his horror that he was unable to turn his head, just his eyes. He was just as paralyzed as Jourdain had been in his final moments. Another figure stepped into view, this one also looking like Jourdain.

"We're done here?" This second figure whispered.

"Almost," said the first. "You've carried out your end of the mission?"

"He's been Blocked, and I took the precaution of rendering him mute and frozen until we are long gone. Hopefully that will afford him some time to contemplate his sins and seek out a confessor in the morning before the Lord Regent's fleet arrives."

"Excellent." The first man smiled. "In that case, we should leave at once. But first...." The man approached, serving up a lightning quick jab at his face and a second to his solar plexus before turning away, causing Lord Davorin to fall rigidly backwards onto the mattress convulsively gasping like a stranded fish, the air knocked out of his lungs. "Now I'm done." At the second man's reproving look, he shrugged. "I'm not as much of an angel as you are."

#

July 20th, 1465
Rhemuth Castle
A guest apartment
Morning

The Queen of Orsal and Tralia had been provided with temporary lodgings in the Queen's Tower at Rhemuth Castle in the same apartment where she had spent the latter half of her girlhood. Only the furnishings had been changed to accommodate multiple ladies-in-waiting as well as Miranda and her children.

Duke Joscelin had been sent back to Corwyn on the previous day with special instructions from the King, shortly after bringing Miranda and her ladies through the Library Annex portal to Rhemuth. Miranda had been informed that same day that the King had received word that most of her other ladies-in-waiting, with the notable absence of Lady Genevieve, had managed to escape to Bočna, so among other instructions the King's Champion had been given had been to make the necessary arrangements to reunite the remaining ladies-in-waiting with their Queen.

"I have had the chambermaids set up Richeldis and Elisa's former rooms for the rest of your ladies also," Queen Catalina assured her, "and my ladies are prepared to help them get settled in here until it is safe for you to return to Horthánthy. Hopefully it should take no longer than a few days for Comte Réhon-Rogan and his forces to secure the Palace and deal with Lord Davorin and what remains of his loyalists."

"Colin tells me the Corps Phénix have already fled in advance of the Regent's arrival," Miranda stated. "Hopefully that should help."

"That will help matters considerably in Tralia," Queen Catalina agreed. "In Joux, not so much, unfortunately."

To help her ladies-in-waiting while away their time in exile in a useful pursuit, Miranda had set them all to sewing, thinking this would fill the dual purpose of giving them all the opportunity to supplement their meagre wardrobe of borrowed clothes as well as providing them with more permanent wardrobe choices so they could return the loaned garments promptly. With any luck, they would be back in Tralia before requiring much more than a new chemise or kirtle, but keeping her ladies occupied would at least keep them too busy to spend much time fretting.

If only the same occupation would help to still her own mind! Miranda made a valiant attempt at creating a new kirtle for Rezza to replace the one she was on the verge of outgrowing, but after having to clip and pull the thread from the same seam twice, she stood, walking towards the window and looking down into the garden below. She could hear her daughters' laughter–the first she had heard from either of them since Lord Davorin's coup began. They were playing with their cousins, Colin and Melisande's children, who had been given leave to skip their schoolroom lessons that day to meet their Tralian cousins. The infant Haldane Prince, of course, was still too young to join them, although a nursemaid sat on a nearby bench holding him as he slept and keeping a close watch over Létald as he contentedly played with a stuffed toy horse rather than attempting to join the older children's games.

Lady Marija's son also sat nearby, watching the others play but seeming reluctant to join in. As Miranda watched, Colin's eldest son walked over to him, head tilted slightly as he spoke, apparently asking him a question. After a moment, Dmitri shyly replied, and the two boys wandered slightly apart from the others. The other boy–Balian, if Miranda remembered correctly–reached into a basket and produced a stuffed leather ball, tossing it at Marija's son.

Miranda sensed Marija approaching from behind her and stepped slightly to one side to allow the other woman to view the scene below them. "It looks like your Dmitri has found a new friend," she observed.

"Da." Marija watched the two boys as they tossed the ball back and forth, occasionally venturing some attempt at conversation. "I'm glad he has found someone here near his age. He hasn't had much experience with playing with other children, and he tends to be a little shy. Not speaking very much Gwyneddan can't be helping with that."

Miranda nodded. "It's hard to gain fluency just from schoolroom lessons. Maybe he'll feel more comfortable with the language once he's spent a little more time here hearing it spoken all around him." Drawing Marija a little apart from the others, she asked, "Have you had a chance to give what I said about Dmitri's need for Deryni training a little more thought?"

Marija shook her head. "I realize it is important, but I wouldn't know where to start. Perhaps Anna will have some suggestions. I always relied on the Hort to make the necessary arrangements when it came to that sort of thing."

"There is a very good schola for Deryni here in Rhemuth," Miranda informed her. "I'm told that Balian–the King's son–will be starting his studies there this coming autumn. Perhaps that would be a good option for Dmitri."

Marija frowned. "I am not sure I can afford that. It might depend on how much damage has been done to my dacha and what the cost of repairs is likely to run. I would need to speak with my steward first."

"Surely Adémar must have left you and Dmitri well enough provided for?" Miranda asked. "If he hasn't left some sort of trust for Dmitri, then I'm certain he must have intended to get around to it in time. That ought to be sufficient for any living expenses for him to attend the Schola."

Her lady-in-waiting stared out the window at the boys. "I will think on it," she said noncommittally. "Though I can't imagine the other children will be as welcoming once they discover that my son is not a nobleman's heir, but just the Hort's by-blow."

Miranda raised her eyebrows at that. "If that's to be an issue for Dmitri, it will be for Balian as well, but I dare anyone make that complaint and have it reach the King's ears!" She sighed. "Marija, I know you want to protect your son, and that's completely understandable. After the past few days, it was difficult for me to let my children out of my sight long enough to go play in the garden! But you are doing him no favors by trying to keep him hidden out of sight. Not only does he need to learn how to develop and manage his powers, he also needs to learn how to interact with the greater world. Hiding him won't keep him safe; you've already discovered that. Teaching him how to develop his strengths in a world that isn't always safe will give him a greater chance in life, not just to survive, but even to thrive. And besides, unless you plan to keep him locked away for the rest of his life, people will figure out who his father is eventually. He looks just like a younger version of Adémar."

Marija's blue eyes filled with tears. "He does. I remember Adémar at his age."

Miranda could sense her lady-in-waiting's deep grief, contained barely beneath the surface of her tightly held composure, a sharp counterpoint to her own vaguely guilty regret. She drew Marija further apart from the others. "Walk with me; I think we will be able to keep a closer eye on the children from the gallery walk." She led the other woman out of the apartment, strolling a short distance down the corridor until they found a more private window niche.

"Tell me about the Adémar you fell in love with," Miranda coaxed gently, taking Marija's hand. "Help me to see him through your eyes. I was married to him for nearly eight years, but I'm not sure I ever truly knew the man. Perhaps if I had...." She sighed.

"If you had," Marija admitted quietly, "you would perhaps still feel the same way about him as you do now. But he was not always the man he became in the last decade or more of his life. You would have had to go back a decade more to know my Adémar von Horthy."

#

Between Marija's haltingly told tale and the memories flitting through her mind as she reminisced, Miranda pulled together a more complete picture of her late husband's younger years.

They had grown up together in the Royal Nursery, Adémar and Marija. Jesaminda also, as well as several other children hand-picked from the families of various favored courtiers who had attended Adémar's father the Hort and his Queen. There were other royal children as well–Adémar's three sisters, two long since married off and the other dead now, and a younger brother who had looked up to his older brother and tried to emulate him.

But even as a young child, Adémar had been Marija's favorite and she, his. He didn't tease like some of the other boys, nor was he aloof towards her like the princesses or Jesaminda, just because her father was a lower ranked courtier than theirs. Her mother was a lady-in-waiting to the Queen, but that counted for little in their eyes. It was the Hort who was important, not his wife.

But Adémar had always had a ready smile for the adoring little girl who enjoyed hearing his stories. And he'd had a great many stories to tell in those days. They helped to while away the moments between his indulgent father's rare visits and his indifferent mother's even rarer ones.

"Someday, many years from now when the Hort my Father is dead–though hopefully not anytime soon!--I will be the Hort of Orsal and Tralia, and once I am, I'll buy us all the sweetmeats we can eat, and maybe a pony. And we'll have our own little dacha in the country. Would you like that?"

Marija had nodded eagerly, wondering what sort of sweetmeats he intended to buy. "What's a Hort?" she asked.

He'd laughed. "Oh, it's a bit like a King, only grander, you see. Because even the King of Joux has to bow to a Hort." He'd winked at her, and she giggled, even though she wasn't really sure what all of that meant. She'd only been three or four at the time.

"Will we all live there, or just you and me?" she'd asked.

He'd shrugged. "I dunno. Who do you want to come live with us?"

"Not Jesaminda! She's mean!"

"Is she mean to you?" He'd frowned. "I hadn't noticed. She's nice to me. But I'll tell her to stop teasing you."

The years passed slowly, yet all too quickly. She began to see less of Adémar as he spent less time with the younger children and more time in the schoolroom, yet he still stopped by a few times a week once he was done with his studies. He'd grown taller and more lanky, and a fair bit more self-assured, but he still found the time to tell her stories. They were filled with all sorts of interesting things that he'd been learning.

"Far away, on the other side of the Anviller lands, there's a realm called Al Zakkar that has fabulous gold mines. A man came to Court last week who had been there. Here, let me Show you something." He'd taken Marija's hand, and a moment later she saw a fabulous beast in her mind's eye, something like a large and misshapen horse with two huge lumps on its back and a man seated on a strange saddle in between, crossing the desert sands. "Would you rather have a pony, or that?" he'd asked with a grin.

She'd laughed. "Oh, a pony, please! I would have no notion how to feed that! What does it eat, sand? And what is it?"

"The man called it a gamal, but Father calls it a camelus."

"And will you go there, to this Al Zakkar, and see the gold mines?" she'd asked, thrilled by the idea of going on such an adventure. Already she was beginning to feel the strictures of being a young lady in Court life, her governess already fussing at her about sitting up straight and being graceful, and all of the other refined habits a well-brought-up girl should develop in order to know how to conduct herself in a royal court. She accepted the necessity of the lessons, but chafed a bit under all the restrictions. Adémar's life seemed so much more free than hers in some ways.

Adémar had shaken his head, a slight scowl on his face. "I wish I could, but Father would never let me go so far outside of Orsal and Tralia. Maybe if I wasn't his Heir, but I am."

"I wish I could go, but I'm a girl." Marija had sighed deeply, making him laugh.

"Oh, come now, it can't be as bad as all that! At least you're a very pretty girl!" He paused, seeming to look at her as if noticing her for the first time. "You really are beginning to look more like a young lady now rather than just a small child. I suppose I shan't be allowed to keep visiting you before too long, at least not without others hanging about."

"Why not?" she'd asked.

He'd turned a bit pink. "Nothing you need worry about. You'll understand in time."

She'd understood much better in only a few more years. She'd already had to fend off Prince Piotr's advances a time or two by then, the few times he'd managed to catch her alone in the formal gardens at Vár Adony. It was not at all difficult to refuse his clumsy attempts to kiss her; Piotr was a self-centered ass.

Marija had entered the garden labyrinth one late spring evening in an attempt to get away from the younger Prince, who appeared to have been under the mistaken impression that her 'No' had simply meant 'Try harder.' She'd nearly run headlong into Adémar and Jesaminda. They'd been mostly hidden in the growing shadows under the small pergola at the center of the labyrinth, but she had managed to see enough. She'd turned and run halfway back, unwilling to leave the labyrinth completely for fear of encountering Piotr lurking outside the entrance waiting for her to emerge, yet also unwilling to see Adémar in anyone else's embrace.

She'd shrunk back into a corner of the hedge-lined pathway when they'd started back towards the Palace. As they drew closer, Adémar had stopped Jesaminda. "You should go on ahead before you're missed," he advised her. "It won't do for us to be seen leaving the labyrinth together." Jesaminda had given him a conspiratorial grin and a lingering kiss before continuing on towards the exit, either seeing or sensing Marija as she'd walked past the spot where she hid. She shot a gloating smile at the damp-eyed girl, pulling a golden locket out of her bodice and displaying it triumphantly as she passed by.

Marija was so furious at Jesaminda, she didn't hear Adémar's approach until he stood right beside her, making her almost jump in surprise. He studied her tear-streaked face in concern. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"Yes!" She fumbled for some excuse for her distress. "I just...tripped. But I'm fine."

She could tell he was unconvinced. "Nothing happened back there," he said quietly.

"It's none of my business," she assured him. It had certainly looked like something had been happening, though!

He shrugged, looking very uncomfortable. "We kissed a bit. That's all. It wasn't anything important. I mean...it's just Jesaminda. She's not special to me or anything, she's just...."

"Easy?"

He'd flushed. "I wouldn't know. If I was going to try for anything else, it certainly wouldn't be in the middle of the garden, though." He'd waved a hand towards the Palace. "You can see everything from Mother's apartment. She'd flay me alive!" He gave Marija a cajoling grin. She'd looked away.

"Marija...." He'd given her shoulders a gentle squeeze. "Please don't be angry with me. I know it was stupid."

"It's all right," she'd whispered. "I don't own you. You don't owe me anything."

"Maybe not, but the last thing I ever meant to do is hurt you."

They'd grown even further apart for a time, not by choice on either side, but that had been the summer when the Hort had unexpectedly died, leaving Adémar suddenly having to figure out the duties he had assumed he would have many more years to learn. He'd been not quite yet twenty-one at the time, too old to need a regent, yet young enough to not feel fully secure about assuming his newfound responsibilities even though his father and tutors had been steadily preparing him over the past few years. Still, even then he had tried to slip away from his duties from time to time, needing respite.

"I don't know what I'd do without Lord Davorin," he'd admitted to Marija on one such occasion. "The man is making himself quite indispensable!"

There was something about Jesaminda's father that she didn't quite trust, but there wasn't any reason for her distrust that she could figure out how to articulate to Adémar. "I wouldn't depend on him too much," she tried to caution him. "I know it's tempting to, but you need to figure things out for yourself."

"I am!" he protested, sounding hurt and a shade too defensive.

"I know you are," Marija reassured him swiftly. "It's just that it would be best not to grow too reliant on anyone."

"Anyway, enough about work," he said, pointedly changing the topic. "Do you remember when we were children, and we used to pretend we were going to buy a dacha and run off there to ride ponies and eat sweetmeats?"

She laughed. "Yes!"

He gave her a charming grin. "Can you keep a secret?"

She studied him curiously, wondering what this was about. "I suppose so. What sort of secret?"

He glanced around. "Do you think you could slip out after dark? If not, I'll try to figure some other way to show you."

She'd bit her lip, thinking. It would be a bit risky. She'd be in major trouble if she got caught, especially now that she was a junior lady-in-waiting to the Queen. But the Queen had been rather lax with her household of late. There were rumors that she planned to return to her homeland rather than remaining in Orsal or Tralia.

"I think I can, if it's not too very late. Maybe after feast, but before I have to return to the Queen's Apartment for the night. Where do you want me to go?"

"Meet me next to the kitchens, near the pantry."

She had slipped out of the Banqueting Hall a little early that evening, making her way to the location he'd mentioned. After a few minutes, he joined her there, leading her up some stairs and into a part of the Palace she'd never been inside, although she recognized it. It had been his apartment after he'd left the Royal Nursery, but before he had become the Hort. Currently it was vacant. She looked around in confusion at the vacant rooms he led her through. "What do you want to show me?"

"It's not here," he said with a chuckle. "But this might be my last chance to show you, since in a few weeks Lord Davorin will be moving into these chambers."

"How are you going to show me something that's not here?" Marija asked, genuinely bewildered. She was even more confused when he led her through a short corridor into what appeared to be a garderobe.

"You are going to think I've gone stark raving mad," said Adémar with a boyish laugh. "But do you trust me?"

"Yes," she'd told him, smiling up at him.

He walked over to a counter that held a basin and ewer, currently empty. There was a small niche to one side of it. He backed up into that niche, feet spread slightly apart, then beckoned. "Come stand right in front of me, and put your feet between mine."

Mystified, she did as he asked. He shook his head. "No, a bit closer." He reached out to clasp her around the waist, pulling her close as if intending to kiss her. She stepped closer, hoping that he would.

Instead, the world gave a sudden lurch, and suddenly she found herself elsewhere, standing in total darkness. She clutched at Adémar in fear.

"Shh, don't be frightened," he soothed her as he chased away the darkness around them with handfire. "I'm sorry, I should have warned you what was going to happen." He took her hand in his free hand, the other one still lighting their way as he led her up some stone steps."

"What is this place?" she whispered.

"Well, at the moment, it's just an old estate I've inherited." He opened a door at the top of the stairs and led her into a fortified manor that had seen better days, but that was far from decrepit. With a bit of restoration, it could look quite grand again.

"I seem to have inherited an old dacha," he told her, slipping an arm around her waist and giving it a gentle squeeze. "It needs some fixing up, but I'm thinking it will make a nice little getaway." He grinned. "It might be missing some sweetmeats and a pony." He looked around at the dusty room around them, looking wistful. "I wish I could actually live here. But maybe you can someday."

She bit her lip. "It's lovely, but it wouldn't be proper for me to accept a dacha from you. And anyway, it wouldn't be the same without you living here with me."

Adémar heaved a deep sigh. "Jesu, I wish I could! Sometimes I wish I weren't the Hort, and that we could just live here in the country and get away from all the politics and the brown-nosers and boot-lickers at Court."

"But you are the Hort now," she'd whispered.

"So I am." He sounded bitter. "And it's everything I've ever wanted in some ways, but nothing at all like what I want in others." He walked over to a window, tracing a line in the dust on the windowsill. "Lord Davorin keeps hinting that it's time I start thinking about marrying and siring heirs. I think he's hoping I'll marry Jesaminda."

"Will you?" Marija asked, her heart in her throat.

"God, no!" Adémar replied with a slight laugh.

That might have eased her mind if it weren't for the rumors swirling around the Court in recent months. "Court gossip has it that you've had her in your bed already." Marija tried to keep her voice even, as if that didn't matter to her.

He glanced away, staring out the window. "People talk about all sorts of things, Marija. Half of them aren't true, you know that."

"That means that half of them are."

He turned to face her. "Look, even if I have, it didn't mean anything," he tried to reassure her, his expression suffused with guilt. "It's just that...well, men have certain needs...."

"And women don't?" she challenged him.

He flushed. "Well, I wouldn't know," he said with a quiet laugh, "never having been one myself."

"Stop trying to humor me, Adémar. I can see straight through the crap you're shoveling." Marija turned away. "I want to go home now."

"All right," he told her, his voice sounding very subdued behind her. He put his arms around her, holding her even as she stiffened in his embrace. "I'm sorry."

Marija couldn't quite keep the tears out of her voice. "Why Jesaminda?! She's a spiteful, manipulative, conniving little bitch!"

"I know," he whispered in her hair. "You're right. I keep meaning to break things off with her."

She turned in his arms, the tears running freely down her cheeks now. "Then why don't you?"

Adémar shook his head, looking miserable. "I don't know." He wiped her tears with his fingertips. "I'm so sorry. You must think I'm horrible."

She shook her head. "Never that. Just...confused." She lifted her face to his, daring to kiss him. After a moment, he returned the kiss.

"I should get you home," he whispered, "before I do anything else we'll both regret."

She wondered if he meant what she thought he might. "I wouldn't regret it," she admitted.

"You would eventually," he warned her. "I can't marry you, Marija. If I could, I would." He sighed. "But if it's any consolation, I also can't marry Jesaminda, even if I wanted to, which I don't."

"That's good, because if you marry Jesaminda, I might have to kill you," Marija exclaimed, only half joking. "But why can't you marry Jesaminda either?"

"Because I'm the Hort. I'll be expected to marry a princess, or a duke's daughter at the very least."

The flow of whispered reminiscences and fleeting memories called to mind stopped as Marija, recalled to the present by the realization of who she was sharing her deeply personal memories of her beloved Adémar with, looked at Miranda briefly with an apologetic smile before glancing away, brushing the dampness from her eyes as she attempted to compose herself. The Haldane Princess that Adémar had ended up marrying clasped Marija's hand with an empathetic smile. "Thank you. I'm sorry that life didn't turn out the way that any of us had hoped for. But it helps a bit to see what Adémar was like before...." She waved her free hand as if that might conjure up an apt way to describe the Adémar she had known without being unduly unflattering and hurting the woman who'd loved him any further.

"Before he grew jaded?"

Miranda nodded. "Yes. He wasn't the only one. I suppose I could have done a bit more in trying to meet him halfway." She glanced back down into the garden below, watching the playing children. "Please consider what I said earlier about Dmitri's education. At least maybe he'll get the chance to follow some of his dreams."

Next chapter: https://rhemuthcastle.com/index.php/topic,3503.0.html

[tmcd]

I still think that leaving Lord Devourin alive and (pretty much) intact is a major risk and mistake. The only time I can think of where someone got upset at a major opponent getting shanked was Caesar in re Pompey. (And Caesar's inclination for mercy resulted in being hacked.) And even though it's 300 years later, you'd think the Haldanes of this time, and their people, would have heard of Festils and Mearan pretenders, and how one line escaping and continuing was a royal pain in the donkey for decades or centuries.

If keeping the miserable cur alive and basically intact is nevertheless seen as somehow necessary for some stupid chivalrous reason, well, hamstringing him and crushing his hands in non-healable ways means he's not gonna run and he's not gonna fight, and his supporters have seen that his enemies are powerful and holding back.

[Evie]

King Nicholas didn't leave him alive for chivalric reasons, but for political/diplomatic reasons. Lord Davorin isn't his subject, he is the Hort's (or since Létald is only 13 months old, it's his Regent's responsibility to act in his name). Could he order an assassination of a foreign dictator? Sure. Would that go over well with the people of that kingdom, or the legitimate government there who would prefer to handle the matter via their own legal processes and in their own way even if they agree the man deserves killing? Probably not. And his sister is the one who would end up having to deal with the fallout of that, being the dowager Queen Mother in Orsal and Tralia, yet without the political power necessary for her to be able to legitimately try and execute him herself since she is not the Regent. But as the Hort's mother, she will still have to work closely with the Regent for at least the next 14 to 15 years, so let's not tick him off right out of the starting gate.

However, Davorin is now Blocked, paralyzed, mute, and his hired mercs have left. The Regent is arriving in mere hours. How much mischief are you worried he's going to get up to before morning? I think Davorin has more cause to worry someone might take advantage of his helplessness than the Orsalian public need worry about him getting up to more villainy in his condition! 

[drakensis]

I'd have been tempted to at least move him into the secret passage (carrying him away to captivity somewhere secure would be preferable), so that there was no one to potentially move him - or kill him before he could be thoroughly interrogated.

And if this happened to mean his supporters believed he'd abandoned them the moment things went wrong for his cause... well, that's convenient. One can always then spread stories about his later capture to support this.

A rumor that Lord Davorin fled for Joux dressed as an (insert embarrassing disguise here) and got caught on the road under further embarrassing circumstances would not do his cause any good, even if he should wriggle free in the future. Something which another supposedly safely secured individual did recently.

[Evie]

I'd have been tempted to at least move him into the secret passage (carrying him away to captivity somewhere secure would be preferable), so that there was no one to potentially move him - or kill him before he could be thoroughly interrogated.

And if this happened to mean his supporters believed he'd abandoned them the moment things went wrong for his cause... well, that's convenient. One can always then spread stories about his later capture to support this.

A rumor that Lord Davorin fled for Joux dressed as an (insert embarrassing disguise here) and got caught on the road under further embarrassing circumstances would not do his cause any good, even if he should wriggle free in the future. Something which another supposedly safely secured individual did recently.

Pretty sure Geoffrey and Saoirse didn't want to risk getting caught by one of those regularly scheduled guard patrols while they were lugging a paralyzed tyrant down the corridor towards the secret passage.

That said...someone moving Davorin to some unexpected location in his present condition?  Hmmm...interesting idea....    *goes back to proofreading tomorrow's chapter*