The Misbegotten King

by Anne Kelleher Bush

  With a little shriek of delight, she launched herself into his arms, her white petticoats flashing around her plump legs. He lifted her up and hugged her tightly, gazing over her shoulder to the baby, who had been alerted by his sister’s shriek. “Hello, Meli,” he whispered against the thick fall of her dark curls. “How’s my sweetest girl today?”

  Melisande giggled and took his face in both of her hands. “I’m a good girl, Dada. Rhodri, he’s been bad!”

  “Bad?” Roderic smiled, in spite of himself. Tavia wrapped the infant in a light cotton blanket and raised him to her shoulder, where his head bobbed in the direction of his sister’s voice, like a heavy tulip on a too-fragile stem.

  Melisande giggled and whispered something in his ear, something breathy and indistinguishable, and Roderic shook his head. “My, my. Extra guard duty for him, don’t you think?”

  Melisande shrieked with giggles. “Oh, Dada, he can’t even walk.” She struggled in his embrace. “Watch me dance.”

  Obligingly he set her down, and she stood on her tiptoes, humming a tuneless little song. As Tavia crossed the room, Melisande jumped and kicked, her arms held high over her head, and Roderic realized she imitated the Islanders and their energetic dances. Abruptly he was reminded that Deirdre should have returned by now. He frowned.

  Tavia spoke softly. “Say hello to your Dada, young Prince.”

  In spite of everything, Roderic had to smile back as the baby, as though obedient to his aunt’s order, broke out into a wreath of toothless grins. His deep blue eyes crinkled at the corners and he made a soft coo. Roderic stroked the back of the baby’s downy head, where the hair still stuck up in all directions. “He’s doing well.”

  “Yes.” Tavia nodded. “They both are.” She looked at Roderic sharply and her motherly face was wreathed with concern.

  “Dada.” Melisande tugged at the hem of his tunic. “When’s Nanny coming home?”

  Roderic drew a sharp breath and tried to suppress a sigh. Everyone missed Annandale, especially Meli, for Annandale was the closest to a mother she had ever known. “Soon, sweetheart. Nanny will be home as soon as she can.”

  “Meli,” Tavia said, “go and find Kaitlan. She’s right next door sorting laundry.”

  “Is it time for cakes?” asked Melisande, her cheeks pink.

  “Nearly,” replied Tavia. “When you find her it will be.”

  “Bye, Dada!”

  The child disappeared through a door. Tavia gave Roderic a long, considering look. “Come.” She led the way onto a balcony, where two chairs were placed side by side in the shade. A soft breeze stirred the baby’s hair. Roderic sat in one of the chairs and Tavia placed the infant in his arms, smiling down at him. “He’s growing beautifully, Roderic.”

  The child looked at him with a grave expression in those blue, blue eyes. His little mouth was rosy, his cheeks softly plump. His hands were clasped loosely on his chest. He looked for all the world like an old man at peace with the world. Roderic touched his fingertip to the very tip of the tiny nose and smiled sadly. He drew a deep breath.

  “You miss her.”

  He nodded, his eyes not leaving the baby’s face. “I hope she made it there all right. I expected Deirdre back by now. I’m sure Alexander convinced Vere to go off on some wild goose chase after Dad.” He raised his head and sighed. He had been tempted to go off after Alexander when it was discovered his brother was missing, but Brand had quickly convinced him of the folly that would be. Alexander might be an invalid, but he was a grown man and an experienced soldier. If he insisted on traipsing alone through enemy territory and Vere was foolish enough to go with him… well, there wasn’t really anything Roderic could do about it.

  “You don’t look happy, Roderic.” Tavia spoke as gently as she might to the child in his arms.

  “I have a bad feeling.” He did not take his eyes off the infant, but a frown deepened the new furrow between his brows. “I can’t explain it, but I have a terrible feeling.”

  “Tell me.” She leaned back in her chair.

  “There’s a border garrison south of here, called God’s Deen. It’s right at the border of Missiluse and Atland. You know Kye has gone to secure a position there. Frankly I expected Deirdre to return by now…” His voice trailed off, and he raised his eyes to the horizon, where the mountains rose purple against the clear blue sky.

  “What about Dlas?”

  He shot her a sharp look. “Have you been talking to Brand?”

  “He’s worried about his son, Roderic.”

  Roderic sighed. “I know and I understand. The reinforcements left here a month ago. They should be there by now. I expect dispatches soon.”

  “And Everard?”

  “The fighting in the North seems to have abated.” Roderic shrugged. “So here we wait, like pieces on a chess board. Kye is to march east to Atland garrison. Depending on the resistance he encounters, I expect to send Brand with more troops. And once we secure Atland, we will turn on Missiluse.”

  “Do you have the troops to send?”

  Roderic nodded slowly, holding out one finger for the infant to grasp. “Barely.” He gazed at the baby. “Do you think I was right to let her go, Tavvy?”

  Tavia sighed. “I—I don’t know, Roderic. I know Annandale is—special. But it seems that all the world’s at war right now.” Tavia shook her head. “She was very brave to leave these walls. I wouldn’t want to do it.”

  “I almost felt I had no choice but to let her go.”

  “Perhaps you didn’t,” Tavia said gently.

  Roderic sighed again. “So many decisions, Tavvy. So many variables.”

  “So many depending upon you to do what is best.”

  He looked up then and met his sister’s gentle eyes. What would she say, he wondered, if he told her the truth? Would she tell him to stop the fighting? Tell him to open negotiations with Amanander for the throne? And even if Amanander was not the rightful King, there was still Brand, still Alexander or Everard or Phillip or Vere. His mind rejected Phillip outright—in all the years of fighting, Phillip had offered nothing but excuses. He was safe behind the walls of Nourk and he intended to stay there. Vere would have no part of the throne, of that he was certain. But Brand, or Alexander or Everard— any of them—they were fit to rule. What did an ancient prophecy matter now? Nydia was dead and gone, and so was Abelard, too, for all they knew.

  The baby screwed up his face and mewed, waving his fists. Roderic instinctively raised the child to his shoulder and patted his back. The infant quieted momentarily, and Tavia looked at him with motherly concern. “We all miss her, Roderic.”

  Roderic nodded. “I wish—”

  “Yes?”

  He handed the baby to Tavia and rose to pace the length of the balcony. The wind ruffled the shock of hair which fell across his brow. “I wish I could shake this feeling, Tavvy. I keep feeling that something very bad has happened. And I just can’t say what it is.”

  In the room there was a knocking on the door and a nursery maid opened it as Roderic peered into the interior of the room. A soldier stood in the doorway. “I was told that the Lord Prince was here,” he said to the maidservant.

  With an anxious glance at Tavia, Roderic stepped back inside the room. “I’m right here.” He beckoned to the man. “What is it?”

  The soldier saluted. “Scout came in a few minutes ago, sir. He found two bodies, about three days ride from here.”

  Roderic nodded for the man to continue, squaring his shoulders instinctively. “Well?”

  “Two of the M’Callaster’s men, sir. They were wearing plaids.”

  Roderic closed his eyes as Tavia rushed to his side with a little cry. “Any sign—any sign of my wife?”

  The man shook his head. “No, sir. No sign of either the lady or the M’Callaster.”

  “No indication what happened to them?”

  “Mutens, apparently. The wounds on the bodies look like razor spears. They were heading through Muten territor
y after all. The scouts are waiting in the hall, if you would like to speak to them for yourself, Lord Prince.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  As the soldier saluted once more and withdrew, Roderic looked at Tavia and knew she could see the unvoiced fear in his eyes.

  “We’ll pray, Roderic,” she said as she patted the infant’s back. “We’ll pray that all is well.”

  “I think the time is come for more than prayers, Tavvy. It’s time to act.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Across the barren plains of central Arkan, Deirdre and her men rode, pausing only long enough to rest their horses and replenish their dwindling supplies. They stopped at the garrisons, where the wary commanders welcomed them guardedly, gave them food and drink and places to sleep, then sent them on their way with admonitions to be wary.

  The western horizon stretched away in the distance, mile after mile of barren, dusty land. Deirdre remembered that Roderic had told her once that the Arkan Plains had been a land of plenty. The crops had grown from horizon to horizon, he’d said, and the bread of Arkan fed the whole of Meriga.

  They rode through scattered villages, where men in tattered clothes scratched a living from the dust, and women with faces lined with grief and care eyed them suspiciously from the doorways of hovels. They never stopped in those places, never begged so much as a crust of bread or a cup of water, even for their animals. Silver was next to worthless here. Only food had value, and Deirdre could not bear the thought of taking even a scrap away from people who had so little.

  The garrison commanders were stern, tight-lipped men who asked many questions and provided little information. They did give her directions readily enough to the next garrison. Deirdre suspected that her progress was being reported upon. Well, let it be, she thought, though she doubted Roderic would be relieved to hear that she headed west. Doubtless he would suspect she had deserted his cause.

  But she had learned to dismiss such thoughts from her mind. The days were long and demanding enough without worrying about something which might not come to pass. So she thanked the garrison commanders and always made sure they knew her name, even if they didn’t believe her title.

  They were courteous enough, though, and more than once she had seen the soldiers on the walls, watching as she and her companions rode away, onto the highways which ran across the landscape, testimony to Abelard’s unceasing care, stretching across the measureless miles.

  Time and again they were warned about the Harleyriders, who emerged from their camps in the deep deserts south of Loma and who were expected on their customary migrations. “In this part of the country, we let them be,” explained the lieutenant of one lonely outpost as he watched them prepare to leave. “But this year we’ve seen damn few—too few if you want my opinion.”

  Deirdre paused. His opinion might count for something, she thought. She had learned long ago that the soldiers in the field often had a better idea of conditions than their superiors in their keeps. She shifted her plaid and settled her swordbelt across her hip. “The spring was late in coming. Is it possible it’s kept them in their lairs?”

  The lieutenant, a tall man weathered beyond his years, stared down at her, something like respect warring with condescension in his expression. “Perhaps you are right, lady. We’ll hope it isn’t something more.”

  “What have your scouts told you?”

  For answer he gazed beyond the opened gates. “Well that’s the trouble. They haven’t been able to tell us anything. There’s been hardly any signs of the Harleys at all.”

  “And that worries you?”

  “We know they’re out there. And if they aren’t here— and if the other garrisons report no signs of them… then where are they?”

  Deirdre shrugged. Harleyriders were a legend to her people, wild tales told around the fires at night. The Sascatch Tribes, who ranged across the northern borders of Meriga and who sacrificed human prisoners to their gods and ate their flesh, they were more of a real threat than Harleyriders.

  “You be careful, lady,” the soldier said grimly. “Just because we can’t see them doesn’t mean they aren’t there. Somewhere. And you’re a stranger to this part of the country, no matter who or what you are in your own lands. I can tell you don’t quite believe how dangerous they are.”

  Deirdre considered his warning. There was a certain amount of truth in what he said. He was a skinny giant of a man, so tall that even she had to look up. Deep lines ran down the corners of his mouth. This was a man whose face reflected the harshness of the land where he had spent his life. “Don’t believe in them?”

  “Lady, you rode in here as bold as any man I’ve ever seen; you carry yourself like a soldier and speak like a lord. Your men answer to you as readily as mine do to me. But don’t underestimate the dangers of this land, lady, for there’s more out there than you care to imagine. Do you know what the Harleys do to their enemies? The ones they respect, I mean?”

  “No. Tell me.”

  “They crucify them. They take them to the nearest building—even if it is just a ruin, or a tree if they can find one—and tie the prisoner to it, arms outstretched, feet together, maybe as high as ten feet or so in the air. Sometimes they use nails. But either way it’s a long, slow, cruel way to die. I’ve seen what the bodies look like. And it isn’t a pretty sight.”

  Deirdre swallowed hard, listening to the mutters of her men as they paused in their preparations. “I don’t imagine it is.” She met his eyes, refusing to show fear or the slightest hesitation “I appreciate your warning, lieutenant, and I will be careful. Now, how many days till the next garrison?”

  “Ford-Gunn lies ten days ride from here, due west. There’s a village between here and there, Gassapeak. You’ll find water, but don’t look there for provisions. You’ll have more luck relying on your bow.”

  She nodded her thanks, threw her bedroll on top of the pack behind the saddle, and gripped the reins in both hands. As she swung up into the saddle, she looked at him once more. “Tell me, lieutenant—” He raised a look of grave concern. “Is there any news of the Prince? Or the situation in the South?”

  He shook his head. “Last messenger came in over two weeks ago, lady. We’re at full alert—but so far nothing more.”

  She nodded a brief farewell, tugged at the reins, and rode through the high gates, ignoring the stares of the curious men who watched as the company rode away.

  Spring might have come slowly to this land, she thought, but summer was here with a vengeance. Their horses’ hooves struck the paved surface of the highway with a loud echo. The landscape was barren and sere, a few scrawny trees clung to the surface of the dusty soil, here and there a few hardy flowers bloomed in the crevices of what could only be ruins of the Armageddon. She followed the road, which led along the steep banks of the river, a river which flowed sluggishly, its water muddy and unappealing, reflecting a few of the clouds scudding across the lowering sky.

  Four days out of the garrison, at a hot dry noon, she reined her horse and squinted ahead in the distance. Sweat trickled down her neck between her shoulder blades, and her linen shirt clung to her body like a damp skin. Her plaid, woven against the chill and damp of the North, lay in a roll behind her saddle. Even the horses seemed to gasp for breath.

  Ahead of her lay the ruins of a city, the high towers gaping empty. She drew a deep breath.

  Darmot looked around. “You want to go through there?”

  “Is there a way around it?” She looked at the steep riverbank, the high hills which cradled the little city.

  He stared all around. “Will take us an extra day to ride around it. There’s no way across the river.”

  Deirdre nodded slowly. “Aye, and once across, could we get back so easily?”

  Darmot shook his head. “I don’t like the look of that, M’Callaster.‘Tis an ambush waiting to happen in there.”

  She glanced at him. “But there’s no time. Every day we lose—”

 
“Aye, M’Callaster, I know your mind.” He glanced over his shoulders at the other men. “Draw in, lads. Weapons ready.”

  The little company drew together in close formation, and Deirdre kicked at her horse. The hooves rang with eerie echoes through the stillness. They cantered down the road, the dust flying up in their eyes and mouths, hands at their swords.

  Through the main thoroughfare of what had once been a city, beneath the ruins, empty shells where everything one might even think could be useful has been carted away long ago,, they rode. The hair rose at the back of Deirdre’s neck. The gaping glassless windows reminded her of eyes, of mouths full of jagged teeth. At the many crossroads they paused, glancing down the empty roads, the cross streets where twisted lines of rotted steel swayed in the breeze. Flat sheets of metal, long ago scoured bare by the relentless weather, hung at haphazard angles off poles. The eerie emptiness coupled with the debris caused Deirdre to shiver. She touched her spurs to her horse’s side and raised her hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

  As one, the company galloped out of the ruined city. Deirdre breathed a low sigh of relief as they passed the last of the rubbled buildings and the open roadway loomed ahead of them. She turned to Darmot with a rueful smile. “I suppose we’re getting to be worse than a couple of old wives?”

  He opened his mouth to answer, and from the buildings, a low keening wail swept across them. The hair rose once more on her neck, and she wheeled her horse, drawing her sword in one fast smooth motion.

  As one man, the six drew their weapons, drawing close in tight formation. Deirdre half rose in the stirrups. “Donner, Darmot, do you see?—” She broke off as a hawk rose from a building, a struggling rabbit gripped in its talons. Deirdre relaxed with a curse. “I see demons in shadows,” she muttered. “Come, let’s ride on.”