The Misbegotten King

by Anne Kelleher Bush

  He saw surprise flicker in the Muten’s eyes, and the impenetrable gaze registered shock. Nourk was a rich plum, defended by the mountains and the sea, a separate principality governed by his fat brother, Phillip, who never bestirred himself to either aid or hinder. Let him learn the cost of neutrality, thought Amanander. He looked at Ferad and rose, gathering the folds of his cloak around him. “Come.” He gestured to his old tutor. “We ride to Harland of Missiluse.”

  “Where will we meet again, lord?” asked Jama as Amanander turned his back to stalk away.

  “You will hear from me,” replied Amanander. “Do nothing until you hear.” The boy opened his mouth to protest, and Amanander glanced at Ferad. “Practice patience. Your people have waited five hundred years or more for a homeland. What’s another month or two?”

  “B-But, lord-” For the first time Jama sounded like he might be close to the age he looked. “We have already attacked. My men, aided by the Brotherhood, have destroyed three hundred of their troops.”

  Gartred gasped from her perch on the saddle. Amanander paused with his foot in the stirrup. He deliberately set his foot down and turned to face Jama. “You’ve done what?” He looked at Ferad. “You didn’t tell me about this.”

  Ferad shrugged. “It seemed unnecessary. I didn’t think—”

  “No.” Amanander narrowed his eyes. “That much is obvious. You counsel me to have patience. I suggest you hearken to your own advice.” Jama had risen to his feet, but even standing, Amanander topped him by nearly a foot. “Did anyone survive this attack?”

  “We—we don’t know. But over a thousand of my warriors attacked a force of less than three hundred. I doubt anyone could have escaped.”

  Amanander frowned. “How old are you, boy?”

  “Eighteen.” Jama gasped as Amanander closed the distance between them and twisted the front of his tunic in his fist. The other Mutens growled and muttered, drawing in close, but Ferad held up his hand and they halted.

  “Eighteen. Still have the taste of your mammy’s milk on your tongue. You listen to me, boy. If you want this alliance, you will do as I say, when I say it, and not before.” Amanander spoke with narrowed eyes and clenched jaw. He was gratified to see that flick of fear in Jama’s eyes again. So the whelp was afraid of him. Good. Now, if only he could discover a way to turn that fear to his own uses. “How did the Brotherhood aid in this attack? Did they use Magic?” He bore down into the three dark eyes, unflinching.

  “Yes,” whispered Jama.

  “You’d better pray that there were no survivors, or the hope of the Children will be short-lived. We don’t want that upstart pretender to think that there’s anything more afoot than he already suspects.” He released Jama abruptly, and the youth stumbled back against the vine-covered trunk. “Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly, Lord Prince.”

  He raked the whole company of Mutens with a look of utter contempt. “Fools,” he muttered. “Your first order is to wipe out those who remain at the College.”

  “But—but, lord—”

  Amanander leaned so close he could see the quivering lashes which rimmed the Muten’s third eye. “The College of Elders is our greatest threat. You know they have ever counseled caution. They have stood in the way of your people claiming what is rightfully yours. They walk the path of peace, to the exclusion of all others. They prefer to hide their Magic when it could have been used to help you more times that you can begin to count. They blind and mutilate themselves, and the rest of you starve to death in your hovels.”

  Amanander stood back with a satisfied air at the horror he read in Jama’s face. “Leave the humans to me. But sooner or later, especially now that you’ve attacked Roderic’s forces using the Magic, Roderic is going to ally with the College, and we don’t want that to happen. Do you know where the College is now?”

  Jama bit his lip and gave a short shake of his head. “N-no, Lord Prince,” he said sullenly.

  “Then I suggest you find it. And quickly.” He snapped his fingers at Ferad. “Come.” He swung into the saddle and rode away without a backward glance.

  Chapter Eight

  The wide inner ward of Ithan Ford within the high walls of crushed rubble teemed with men, women, and horses, and makeshift shelters which housed children and small animals of every seeming description. As a young boy led his horse away, Roderic stripped off his gloves and turned to help Annandale from her saddle. “By the One,” he muttered.

  “What’s all this, Roderic?” Annandale looked around with a mixture of interest and disbelief. Even on Appeals Days the inner wards of Ahga were never so crowded.

  “Refugees,” he said. Rumors of war were rampant. The Harleys were said to be poised to invade from the West, the Mutens were said to be on the move from the East. And with the lesser lords of the South in rebellion, the people were taking no chances. Around the great castle a city of tents and other temporary shelters had sprung up, a city which extended for miles around the perimeter of the outer defenses of Ithan. Roderic had noted wearily that the presence of the civilians would make the defense that much more difficult. And yet, he knew, who could blame them—the wretched people who scraped a living from the dust of the Arkan Plains or the hollows of the Pulatchian Mountains?

  Within the walls of Ithan, supplies and provisions lay stacked in high piles along the walls, adding to the cramped chaos. Men in the uniforms of the King’s Army, as well as the colors of the Senador of the Tennessy Fall, and the M’Callaster of the Settle Islands, interspersed with drably dressed servants, milled through the open space, their faces drawn and grim. Here and there a woman or a child scurried through the mass of men, intent upon some errand.

  “Roderic!” Brand’s familiar voice cut through the roar of the crowd with a definite authority. Roderic looked up to see the tall, broad-shouldered bulk of his brother moving through the crowd toward him with practiced ease. He extended his hand to Brand, who embraced him with a tight hug. “Thank the One you made it here.” There were shadows beneath Brand’s eyes, and deep lines extended from his nose to his chin. His face seemed to sag on his cheekbones. Despite his military bearing, Brand looked almost as old as Phineas.

  “Brand?” Annandale’s soft voice reached the men. Brand released Roderic and took the hand she held out to him. He brought it to his lips, and Roderic saw his eyes fill with sudden tears.

  “Lady,” he muttered, his voice rough in his throat.

  “She didn’t suffer, Brand.”

  Brand closed his eyes against the tears and breathed a long, shuddering sigh. “She was a good woman—the best wife a man could ask. She did not deserve to die that way.”

  “She was very dear to us all.” Annandale gazed steadily into Brand’s face, her small white hand wrapped around his scarred paw. As Roderic watched, a faint light, so subtle as to be unnoticeable except by those who knew what to look for, limned Brand’s hand, and with a soft sigh, Brand nodded, the lines of his face relaxing momentarily.

  “I know she’s at peace, lady,” he said as he released Annandale’s hand. “I can believe that now.”

  With a sigh, and a shake of his head, as though he would shrug off his grief, he turned again to Roderic. “Which is more than I can say for the rest of us.”

  “Brand!” Alexander’s voice preceded him. He hobbled through the crowd, one hand tightly gripping a wooden staff. As Roderic looked up, he saw the shock in Brand’s eyes.

  “Alex?” Brand whispered. “By the One—” He reached out to clasp his brother’s free hand. “Are you— are you all right?”

  Looking from brother to brother, Roderic realized just how sickly Alexander must appear to someone who had not seen him in months.

  Alexander nodded and straightened his bent back with visible effort. “I am better, much better. You didn’t think I would be content to chafe at home while you got all the glory, did you?” He grinned at Brand with something of his old humor. “I have business with Amanander of my own. Nothing would
have held me at Ahga.”

  Brand sighed. “Unfortunately, Amanander is the least of our problems right now, Alex.”

  “I believe I may be able to assist in the search for Dad. I think he’s being held somewhere in these mountains to the south.”

  The look Brand shot his brother bordered on derision. “I mean our father no disrespect, Alex, nor you, but if we don’t take some decisive action, and soon, we may lose the estates south of here.”

  Alexander flushed an ugly mottled scarlet. Annandale cleared her throat softly and Roderic took Brand’s arm, guiding him away before he could say anything to upset Alex further. “What’s the situation here?” With a little gesture, Roderic indicated the way through the crowd into the castle proper.

  “Not good.” Brand shook his head. “We lost a full regiment of Deirdre’s men—they were ambushed by Mutens on their way here. Vere and Deirdre got away, but we can ill afford those losses.” Brand stopped on the steps, hooked his thumbs in his swordbelt, and gazed over the ordered confusion in the ward. “There is so much to discuss and so little time to tell you all. The Senadors have begun to arrive. Obayana is here, as well as Norda Coda and all the Arkan Lords. But Roderic—not one of the Western lords is come, nor has Phillip bestirred himself from behind his mountains. Kye is here to represent his father, and Ginya has sent his regrets. I can’t blame him for thinking twice about venturing across the mountains.”

  “Missiluse?”

  Brand shook his head. “Not yet. And to my mind, not at all.”

  Abruptly, Brand broke off and craned his head as sudden shouts announced another arrival. “Looks like someone else is here.”

  From the direction of the gates, there were commands among the guards, and the crowd parted to let through a mud-splattered man who stumbled across the courtyard with the shambling steps of exhaustion. “A messenger?” Roderic looked up and recognized the dark blue uniform of the kingdom messengers. Several soldiers pointed directly to him. The messenger crossed the cobbled courtyard, clutching a wooden tube in one gloved hand.

  “Lord Prince?” The man raised a bearded face to the four standing on the steps.

  Roderic beckoned. “I am he.”

  The messenger went down on his knee and held out the wooden tube. Roderic recognized the round wax seals. “Your brother Everard sends you greetings and begs you excuse his presence at this Convening. A matter of more pressing urgency has presented itself, and he begs you read this letter.”

  Roderic broke the seals, withdrew the parchment inside, and read the letter with growing alarm. With an anxiety that belied the square set of his shoulders, Roderic crumpled the parchment and stared at the messenger, who still knelt on one knee before him. “Are you sure of this?”

  “My Lord Everard said to bring it to you with all haste, Lord Prince.”

  Roderic gazed into the messenger’s exhausted face. Only the truth deserved such urgency. “Yes,” he said slowly, turning the information over in his mind. “Go and get some food—the captain of the messengers will see to your needs.”

  “As you say, Lord Prince.” The messenger bowed with the stiffness of one who has spent many days in the saddle and disappeared into the crowd.

  Roderic smoothed the parchment and read it once more in disbelief. How was it possible, he wondered, that so much could go wrong all at once? He handed it to Brand. “Read this. It’s as well Phillip has chosen to stay in Nourk. Everard will need everything Phillip can give him.”

  Brand took the parchment and read it silently. “But will he give it?” His eyes met Roderic’s, and Roderic knew both of them thought the same thing. Phillip’s notorious reluctance to step outside the mountain borders of Nourk was rapidly becoming more than simply an annoyance. The Muten Tribes had launched another rebellion, this time one which extended well into the Dirondac Mountains. Everard, long trusted by the Muten Elders in the north, could only report that the situation had deteriorated into chaos. There would be no reinforcements from him.

  Roderic slung his cloak over his shoulder and bit back a curse. “Summon a council meeting while I wash some of this stink off. I want Vere, the M’Callaster, Obayana, Arkan… and Phineas.” Roderic gestured with his thumb to where the litter-bearers were helping Phineas out of the wagon and into his litter. “If he’s up to it, after the journey.”

  “As you say, Lord Prince.” Brand nodded grimly, without a trace of humor. “I know Deirdre is impatient to begin the campaign.”

  “Lord Prince!”

  Roderic looked up. The doors of the central keep were open. The Senador of the Tennessy Fall, a man some years younger than Brand, threaded his way across the crowded terrace, a silver welcoming goblet steaming in his hands.

  “Forgive me for not greeting you before this, Lord Prince.” Miles bowed and offered Roderic the cup.

  Roderic took the cup, drank deeply of the spiced wine and passed it to Annandale. “Think nothing of it, Miles. I’ve little time for ceremony.” He ran his hand over his chin. “It won’t mean much to any of us if we can’t untangle this coil.”

  Annandale spoke softly beside him as she passed the cup to Alexander. “I am very glad to see you again, Lord Senador.”

  An expression of near worship crossed the Senador’s face as he gazed at her, and Roderic felt the familiar tingle of pride that his wife should be so beautiful. It was entirely possible, now that he had named his heir, that Annandale was free to seek her pleasure elsewhere. The thought of her taking another man pierced him like an arrow. He glanced down at her.

  As if she heard the echo of his thoughts, she raised her face and gazed calmly into his eyes. Within the depths of cloudless blue, he read a wordless reassurance.

  Miles babbled a welcome, sounding anything but the battle-hardened veteran he was, and with a little squeeze on Roderic’s forearm, Annandale smiled. “I shall be glad to rest beneath your roof, indeed, Lord Senador, if you would be so kind as to show me where.”

  “Oh—oh, of course, lady. Forgive me, I didn’t mean to keep you standing. Come, all of you.”

  Inside, the great hall of Ithan Ford was no less a scene of confusion than the inner ward. As Roderic slung his cloak off his shoulders and stripped his gloves off his hands, he gazed around the great hall. Like the hall of Ahga, Ithan clearly dated from before the Armageddon. Its high roof arched over great sweeps of glass. The fireplaces, which had been cut into the sides, were obviously more recent additions. As his gaze fell over the assembly, his eye was caught by a swirl of bright plaid, the fall of red-brown hair. A lanky form unfolded itself from a place by a hearth, and Deirdre moved with a lycat’s grace to his side.

  “Lord Prince.” She rested her hand on the hilt of her dagger. Her face was pale with fatigue and he noticed her right arm was in a sling. She looked thinner than he remembered.

  “Deirdre,” he said softly. The sight of Deirdre, her feet firmly planted, her shoulders squared, brought a deep sense of relief. What was it about the woman, he wondered, that made him believe that no matter how awful the situation, he could prevail?

  Deirdre nodded. “And this, your lady-wife?”

  Suddenly he was aware of Annandale beside him. He glanced down, and she smiled up at him. Deirdre stood quietly, looking at the two of them with cool appraisal in her dark eyes, and suddenly he remembered the night she had come to him and offered her aid, the bargain they had made between them, and the dreams he’d had afterward. With the naming of his heir, he, too, was free to seek his pleasures elsewhere. But Deirdre, every bit as much a warrior as he, was not likely to insist he keep the promise now.

  Annandale gazed at the woman, who swept her dark eyes over her as boldly as a man. There was an energy about the woman who stood before them, which leapt as eagerly as a fire in a dry hearth. Her huge hands, webbed with old scars, gripped the hilt of her dagger and her swordbelt with white-knuckled tension. Why tense? wondered Annandale. For in every line of the woman’s raw-boned face she read loyalty. And then, she saw Deirdre’
s eyes fall upon Roderic. A rush of feeling swept over Annandale like a tide. She stifled a gasp. Why, she loves him, thought Annandale. With everything she has, she loves him.

  Deirdre’s eyes met hers, and in them Annandale read sorrow and love and a certain envy. Don’t envy me, she wanted to cry. He may be mine for the moment, but that will change. Everything is going to change. But she bit the words back, and instead glanced at Roderic. His hand was tight upon her arm, and for the first time in weeks, she saw a genuine smile play across his face. The burden of his responsibility lightened, suddenly he looked young again, instead of a man twice his age. She’s good for him, thought Annandale. She thought again of the final prophecy she had seen in her mother’s dying moment. This woman who stood before them both, rawboned and vital, with strength emanating from every line, this woman was the woman who would help Roderic bear the sorrow of her death.

  Tears filled her eyes, and she gripped Roderic’s arm tighter. A sob choked her, and Roderic broke off in mid-sentence. “My love,” he said, turning to look down at her, “what is it?”

  She bit her lip and closed her eyes, knowing the color drained from her face.

  “You’re tired and here we stand. Forgive me, lady.” He looked at Miles, who was talking to Alexander and Brand. “Take us to our rooms. My lady is still not recovered from the birth of our son—she needs to rest.” His arm went around her, steadying her, pulling her close, and she nestled instinctively. “Come, sweet—” He nodded to the others. “We’ll talk more later.”

  Immediately, Miles beckoned a broad-bosomed woman with white hair. “My First Lady, Lord Prince, Lady Princess. This is Norah. She will see you to your rooms. If there is anything you require, lady, say but the word.”

  Annandale nodded, and as Roderic gestured for her women, they were shepherded from the hall. Clucking, Lady Norah led them through the crowd, through the maze of corridors and up several flights of steps, to the set of rooms which was to be theirs. As she opened the door, Rhodri gave a high-pitched yell from his nursemaid’s arms.