“But, Phineas, my whole life is a lie. For I am not the son of the King. Brand, Everard, Vere—even Amanander has a better claim than I.” Roderic rose to his feet and paced to the window, where he could see the cold breeze whipping at the dresses of the wash maids hanging out the laundry.
“You must not believe that, Roderic. All save Amanander and Alexander are the sons of common women—Abelard knew that the Congress would divide into factions over any of the others.”
“Well, what of Amanander and Alexander? Why did Dad refuse to name either of them?”
“Amanander is the eldest. His mother was a noblewoman, related by some loose connection to Abelard’s mother. But Rabica Onrada was not an ideal candidate. The reasons aren’t important now, Roderic. All that matters is that you are the acknowledged heir, the acclaimed Regent. Whether or not Amanander is the son of Abelard—”
“Don’t you think it might matter to me?” Roderic interrupted. “All this time I have held this regency in the name of my father—and now I learn he isn’t my father after all.”
“Roderic.” Phineas turned his face to him, and Roderic had the uncanny feeling that the old man could see him. “Do you really believe that? Did Abelard ever, by word or deed or look, ever treat you as anything less than the acknowledged heir of his body, and of Meriga?”
For a long moment, Roderic stared at Phineas. “No,” he said at last. “I would never have known.”
“And neither does anyone else.”
“I only wonder now if I have the right, Phineas. Because the King willed it so, does that make it so?” Roderic looked at Phineas, his voice soft.
Phineas drew a long, shuddering breath, and Roderic wondered what nerve he had touched. “In the present circumstances, Roderic, it does indeed. Do you believe that Amanander would be the better King?”
Roderic stared once more out the window, remembering the cold, black look of his brother’s stare. “No,” he said finally.
“Then whether you believe it or not, you are the Prince of Meriga. And the charge laid upon you by the King is yours. Would you abandon this nation to Amanander?”
Roderic looked at the old man. “So I have no choice?”
Phineas sighed. “A long time ago, someone told me there is always a choice. You can choose to renounce Abelard’s will. You can even choose to run away. You can choose to fight Amanander and then, in the end, give the crown to Alexander, for example, or Brand or Everard or even Vere, if that is your wish. But, Roderic, remember this. Whatever you choose, you must believe that what you do is right, that the ultimate result will be for the good of whatever you hope to achieve. A leader may not know the answers, a leader may not know the outcome, but a leader always has faith. If you lose your faith in yourself, and in your ability to lead this nation, we are already lost.”
Roderic stared at the old man. Faith shall finish what hope begins. The ancient motto of the Ridenau family ran through is mind. What hope had stirred in Abelard’s breast that he had set in motion such a set of complicated events? And he had a stake in the future, too. Rhodri was his son. He remembered how he had felt on the day Rhodri was born. The past hadn’t mattered then… only the future. He drew a deep breath as someone knocked on the door. “Come,” he said.
Brand strode into the room and hard at his heels came Kye, followed by Grefith, Deirdre’s second-in-command. “Roderic,” Brand began, “the scouts we sent east and south have returned.”
Roderic squared his shoulders. “Bring them in,” he said without hesitation. “Call for the captains of the regiments. I shall review the troops this afternoon. We will begin to keep our enemies too busy to notice travelers.” He glanced at Phineas. The habit of command—how easily he assumed it now. Was it really only a question of faith?
Behind Brand the captains of the divisions filed into the room. The men spoke with quiet voices, looking to him again and again as they talked amongst themselves. He sighed softly as he took his place at the head of the table.
There was a stir at the door and six travel-stained men entered.
“The scouts, Lord Prince,” said Brand, taking his seat at Roderic’s right.
Roderic nodded as the scouts bowed. “Come in, gentlemen. Sit down and tell us everything you can.”
Less than a mile out of Ithan, the road forked north and west. At the crossroads, Deirdre paused, reining in her stallion as she turned to Vere to confirm the direction. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of the cloaked rider who had been careful to stay on the periphery of the group as they had ridden out of Ithan. She frowned, quickly counting heads. She wasn’t mistaken at all. There was an extra man. “You there—” She guided her mount over. “Who are you?”
The rider swept his cloak off his head. “M’Callaster,” said Alexander with grave courtesy. “I beg leave to accompany you.”
Deirdre stared. Around her the men muttered to themselves. Vere jerked so hard at his reins that his animal whinnied a protest. Annandale broke the shocked silence. “Alex? But why?”
He looked across the men, mute appeal on his face. “I think I can find the King. If Vere will guide me, after he sees you safely to the College.”
Deirdre glanced at Vere. Vere hesitated. “You think you know where Dad is, Alex?”
“I think I can find him with your help. Please. Roderic has enough on his mind. Dad’s running out of time.”
“How do you know this?” Deirdre narrowed her eyes, pinning Alexander with a stare her men recognized with a shudder.
Alexander looked from Annandale to Vere to Deirdre. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
The riders muttered and Deirdre swore beneath her breath, thinking fast. Now was not the time for such a discussion. She cast a quick glance over her shoulder. It would be a simple enough thing to return to Ithan, to force Alexander to stay and wait until Roderic could address the situation. And yet— She looked from Vere to Annandale to Alexander and made a decision based on intuition alone. “I have a duty to see this lady to the College of the Muten Elders. If you wish to accompany us, so be it, Alexander. Once the lady is safe, then you and Vere are free to decide where you wish to go.” She looked at Vere. “Does that suit you?”
Vere nodded slowly. “Alex, we have to talk about this. You know that.”
“Then the journey will give us the time we need.” Alexander pulled his hood over his head with a satisfied nod.
Deirdre looked at the brothers and shook her head once more, swearing softly. Damn this tangled mainlander coil. She flapped at her reins. There was no more time to waste. “Well, Vere? Which way?”
Slowly, Vere turned to her, his face wearing a puckered frown. “That way, M’Callaster.”
With another curse, Deirdre put the spurs to her horse, wondering why she had not had sense to stay home with the cows and the gulls.
Chapter Fourteen
The wind whined across the cliffs, bringing no hint of summer warmth, no promise of the sun. Only a damp rain spattered fitful drops across Amanander’s face, and low clouds scudded across the midday sky. He glanced at his cousin, Harland, with undisguised contempt. “They’re late.”
“Aman, they’ll be here.” Harland’s voice had the slightest pleading edge, and Amanander smiled grimly to himself.
How was it possible, Amanander thought, for any man to be such an idealist? Harland had been less than three years old the day his father died so horribly at Ferad’s hands, but he seemed to have absorbed his father’s idealism with his mother’s milk. Of course, Harland had no idea of the role Ferad had played in his father’s death, and Amanander, who had witnessed the whole event, had never seen the need to tell him.
Amanander glanced sideways at the younger man, who sat poised and eager in the saddle beside him. The less Harland knew, the better. Now they waited on top of the rocky promontory, on the edge of the no-man’s land which was the border of Loma, for the leader of the Harleyriders.
The wind blew more rain in his face. Up here, exposed
, there was no shelter, but curiously, Amanander was not bothered.
The equations of the Magic flitted through his mind, as they did constantly these days, while he turned them over and over in his brain, endlessly toying with them. He had delved a little into Harland’s mind, loathe to go too deep lest Ferad notice. There were already a few signs that his old tutor distrusted him. More than once he had felt a whisper of Ferad’s presence in his mind. Lately he realized that the intricacies of the Magic could be used to shield his mind from Ferad’s probing. And there was always Gartred. He had but to touch her mind and Ferad withdrew, leaving the unmistakable trace of contempt.
It was that contempt Amanander had seized upon in his initial experiments with emotion and its effects upon the Magic. Directed upon Gartred, the hen responded as he expected. But then he had realized that she had always been more or less in his thrall. He was eager to try his newfound knowledge on someone of greater mettle. He looked at Harland with speculative interest.
Just then, Harland reached over and grasped his forearm. “Look there.” He pointed. “I told you they would come.”
Amanander followed the line of Harland’s finger. Across the desert floor, a dozen dark shapes on shaggy, short-legged ponies emerged from the entrance of the canyon opposite.
“Come on.” Harland tugged at the reins, and wheeled the animal around. Amanander took one last look at the dozen riders trotting across the valley. His gaze swept up and down over the heights opposite.
“Just how well do you think you know this Kahn, Harry?”
“You know my father and his shared the same dream,” Harland replied. “I have known him all my life.”
Amanander swept his arm to the surrounding hills. “If we go down there, we are vulnerable to anything they have placed in the hills. Let them come to us.”
Harland stared. “That’s an act of distrust.”
Amanander met his cousin’s gaze. “So?”
“Aman, I have explained to you and explained to you. We can’t treat these people like enemies if we want to make them our friends—”
“Spare me the nursery lectures, Harry. If you want to risk your neck by going down to meet them, go on. I will wait here—you bring them to me.”
“Aman!”
The two men stared at each other. Amanander considered using the Magic. Finally Harland dropped his eyes. “I-I will go down and see.”
“Good.” Amanander nodded his satisfaction and watched his cousin pick his way down the rock-strewn path. He pursed his lips. In any battle of wills, Harland was sure to be the loser. No wonder Abelard had treated Eldred, the father, with such contempt.
He had Abelard’s will, Abelard’s determination. In that, he was clearly his father’s son. He knew, that as surely as he knew now that he was the true heir of Meriga. And why he was successful at using the Magic— it was the force of his will which fueled the fire within. A man like Harland might not have difficulty grasping the concepts of the Magic, but he might well have difficulty imposing his will. He intended to use that mettle to bring about the destruction of every ideal his father had ever cherished. And the best part of all was that Abelard would watch. He chuckled softly, thinking of Abelard’s red-rimmed eyes in his tortured face. There was nothing of the King about him now. Strange how low one could sink when stripped of every vestige of dignity, every basic human need.
He watched thoughtfully as the trail dipped down and Harland disappeared from view. It was easy to control the minds of men like Harland, but the energy required was enormous, draining. He remembered how Ferad had achieved a link to Alexander, enabling him to drain from his twin the energy needed to restore himself to relative health. That link had been relatively easy to forge and to maintain, until that witch of Roderic’s had interfered. If only there was a way to feed off the life force of anyone he wished. The answer seemed to hover just outside the range of his perceptions, but he was certain emotion was the key. Harland’s high-minded ideals were a bit too lofty, a bit too ephemeral. But it was a matter to which he intended to give a great deal of thought.
His attention was diverted as he saw the riders pull up short at the bottom of the hill and heard Harland’s welcoming shout. He peered over the edge, taking in the view of the men below.
There were exactly a dozen of them, all clothed in black leathers, intricate chains bound over their chests, necks, and upper arms. Their hair was long and dirty, hanging in greasy locks down their backs. Water was sacred to the Harleyriders. So sacred they refused to waste it for bathing. They bragged that at puberty they were sewn into their leather skins and never removed them. His flesh crawled at the thought of being in the company of such unwashed vermin. He refused to apply the word men to them. Even dogs kept clean.
He watched as Harland gestured upward, and the eyes of the riders followed. Amanander gazed down calmly into the dark eyes and dirt-caked faces of his father’s mortal enemies. Strange bedfellows, Dad, he thought, and then chuckled to himself. Well, maybe not so strange at all. The Harleys had roamed for centuries unchecked across the Arkan Plains, until the Ridenau Kings had risen to power and made Meriga a nation once again. He would turn the ancient enmity to his own advantage.
He nodded with grim satisfaction as the leader, at least the one he took to be the leader, gestured for his companions to follow. Harland turned his horse and started back up the path. “Very good, cousin,” he mused. “Very good.”
He waited until Harland emerged from the path and gave him a tight-lipped smile. “I knew you could make them see it my way.”
“Just be careful, Aman,” Harland hissed. “You’ve got tigers by the tail here. These men must be treated with all respect, or all the groundwork I have lain will come to naught.”
Amanander slid his dark eyes over Harland, smelling the rank, greasy odor which clung to his cousin like the stench of the poison pits. “Let’s hope they are as strong as their stench.”
The odor hit him even before they emerged from the path onto the top of the cliff. He choked, his stomach heaving, and tried not to gag. He looked at Harland, wondering how his cousin could have stood the stench up close.
He narrowed his eyes and bit hard on his lip until the pain took the nausea away. He focused on the large figure riding closer, his shaggy mount sure-footed and steady across the rock strewn path.
He squared his shoulders and resisted the urge to cover his mouth and nose with his cloak. It wouldn’t do much good, anyway, he knew.
The Harleys came closer, and Amanander saw the dirt-caked skin, the hard bright eyes in the filthy faces. He met their gazes unblinking.
About ten paces from where he sat, the company halted. “Kahn,” said Harland, his voice higher-pitched than normal, “may I present to you my cousin, Amanander.”
The Kahn did not reply immediately. He looked Amanander up and down, and in his eyes, Amanander saw the same kind of scorn he recognized. We don’t have to bed each other, he thought. Amanander did not flinch beneath the scrutiny.
Amanander inclined his head in the fraction of a bow. “Kahn.”
“Lord.” The rider stared at him for a few beats longer, then gestured over his shoulder. “My woman. Mamma-Doc.”
Amanander looked past the rider, to the figure who pushed her pony forward. She was heavyset, with broad shoulders. Her enormous breasts splayed out from either side of the leather vest she wore. She seemed only marginally cleaner than her man. It was hard to tell what color her eyes might be, for her long, tangled hair hung low over her brow. He noted she wore no chains and carried no weapons. He nodded shortly.
“We have come,” said the Kahn simply, and folded his thick arms over his massive chest.
Harland glanced at Amanander. Amanander drew a quick breath. “I seek to claim my father’s inheritance. Help me regain it, and the Arkan Plains are no longer under the protection of the Ridenaus.”
A stir went through the ranks, but the Kahn himself did not move.
His eyes flickered over
Harland and then back to Amanander. “What are you saying?”
“That when I am in my father’s seat in Ahga, I will not forget the debt, and the Arkan Lords who support my upstart brother—” Amanander tripped over the word brother. “There shall be no more aid from Ahga for them.”
“I told you he thought as I, Kahn,” said Harland eagerly. “I told you he believed that Meriga was big enough for everyone to live peacefully.”
Amanander fought the urge to laugh. The look in the Kahn’s eyes surely matched his own. He looked up as Mamma-Doc cleared her throat.
“Fine words,” she said. “What else can you give us besides promises? We send our men to fight for you… we could end up dead… with nothing.”
“Mamma-Doc,” said Harland, with as much respect as he might have used to a lady of the court, “we have been friends, our people and yours, for as long and longer than I can remember. You have ever had friends in Missiluse. Would we turn against you?”
Amanander watched the woman’s face closely. Her tension resonated through her like a plucked harpstring, palpable as a sound to his mind. With narrowed eyes, he allowed his mind to delve the first of the equations of the Magic. Harland’s voice went on, making promises, sweet as honey, liquid as wine. Quickly as the arrow’s flight, Amanander delved deeper into the Magic. He sought the woman’s eyes, searching for an opening, feeling the emotion tangible as a thread leading him in.
A thousand images swam before his eyes: dark nights, white hot days beneath a merciless sun, the tang of the mare’s milk, the rank odor of the dung fires, the sounds of the chains around the Kahn’s neck as he bent over her to couple.
And then he was inside, deeper, in the place of all her secret hopes and fears, an open book laid before him as easy to read as a child’s scrawl. Say yes, he murmured.
“Man,” the woman murmured, using the title of respect among her people, interrupting Harland’s awkward stammerings. “Yes.”
“What do you say, woman?” The Kahn turned and stared at her.
The Misbegotten King Page 13