The Misbegotten King

by Anne Kelleher Bush

  “Alert formation?” asked Donner.

  “Why not?” Deirdre shrugged. “At least until we’re well clear of this accursed place.”

  In a tight wedge, the men drew together, horses responding to the unspoken commands of the riders as if one flesh. The road led out of the city, down and over the dusty hills. Deirdre glanced suspiciously left and right. Her mount threw back its head repeatedly, nostrils flaring. She patted its neck and saw the whites of its eyes. “Easy, boy,” she soothed, even as she craned her head, trying to guess the source of the animal’s discomfort.

  Over the rise of the next hill, she had her answer. Donner, riding in the front, paused and gagged. “Mother goddess,” he choked. “M’Callaster, look.”

  “Mother goddess, indeed,” muttered Deirdre, scarcely able to believe the grisly sight.

  On either side of the road, crucifixes of varying sizes sprouted like a gruesome parodies of trees. She reined in her horse to a slow walk. The stallion whickered nervously. “Easy, easy,” she murmured as she guided the animal between the row of tortured corpses.

  “M’Callaster,” whispered Donner.

  “Aye?”

  “Look—see the bodies?”

  “Aye?” Deirdre snapped. Looking at the bodies was the last thing she wanted to do.

  “Did the lieutenant at the last garrison not say the Harleys crucified their enemies?”

  “Aye,” she said again. “What of it?”

  “These are no enemies—unless they have launched a war against themselves. These are their own women— and their own children. Look, M’Callaster—do you see?”

  With a sharp glance at Donner, Deirdre peered more closely at the bodies which hung upon the crosses. He was right. The Harleys—or whoever had done this—had nailed Harley women to the crosses. And children. Bile rose in her throat, and with a muttered curse, Deirdre put the spurs to her stallion and galloped down the road, away from the awful sight. Her men, needing no urging beyond that, galloped after her. A little ways past the last of the crosses, she reined her horse to a halt. The horse slowed obediently. The stench of blood was still thick in the air, and the beast pawed the ground nervously. She looked back over her shoulder, quelling her nausea with some difficulty.

  “What does it mean, M’Callaster?” Darmot pulled hard at the reins of his own beast, struggling to bring it under control.

  She shook her head. “The goddess only knows, Darmot. They would have said something if there was war between the Harleys—I thought the crosses were for warriors. The Harley women may be tough, but I have never heard they take up arms and fight with their men.” She drew a deep breath and gazed into the west. “Well, if nothing else, this tells us that there is more afoot here than even the men in the garrison know. From now on, we ride with even more caution. Time grows short, and I have a feeling‘tis even shorter than any of us have guessed.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “Lady.” The word shivered through her mind, caressed her ear as softly as a breeze. Annandale looked up from the low pile of blankets on which Abelard lay. In the weeks of their captivity since their arrival, there had been no change in his condition. The King’s eyes were closed, as usual, his breathing was shallow. The skin sagged from his cheekbones, and beneath the ragged garments he wore, his body was little more than bones and sinew covered with a leathery husk. She could feel his mind, however, and the never-ending torment in which he existed as his body and the last vestiges of his will fought Amanander’s enchantment, and she did what she could to ease the misery. But her attempts were futile; nothing short of her own death could wrest Abelard from Amanander’s control, and she knew that even were she to make such a sacrifice, the King would only die.

  “Lady.” The word whispered through her consciousness once more, and this time she turned around. In the doorway of the prison, a white-robed figure gripped the damp steel bars with hands that shook.

  She rose to her feet and drew the blanket which served as a shawl around her shoulders. Despite the heat out- side, the chill of the basement dungeons penetrated her to the bone. “What do you want, Jama-taw?”

  “I-I’ve come to beg you to forgive me, lady, if you can. I-I understand now what a terrible thing I did to bring you here.” Misery was in every youthful line of his face as he stared into the cell at the four human prisoners.

  “Do you, Jama?” Annandale could not help the bitterness which crept into her voice. “Have you really any idea what it is you’ve done?”

  “Ah, lady—I cannot begin to tell you.” He groaned, then, a sound of purest anguish, and this time, Annandale closed her eyes against his grief.

  Behind her, Alexander coughed, and Vere came to stand beside her. “It’s too late, Jama-taw,” he said evenly. “Apologies don’t really matter. My brother lies close to death; my father cannot die. The College of the Elders is no more. And this lady suffers most of all, since she can feel everyone’s torment in addition to her own. You only add to her grief. Go and spare us all.”

  Jama looked down, mortally stricken. “I was wrong, Lord Vere. I believed Ferad would help our people. The Elders never would.”

  “You never understood what the Elders tried to do for your people. Most of your people never understood. And now they are destroyed.” Another spasm of coughing erupted from Alexander and Vere spun on his heel. “Hold on, Alex. I’m here.”

  “Jama, what’s happening up there?” Annandale asked, to divert her attention from the sound of Alexander’s misery as it shuddered through her. Vere was right. Here there was nothing but constant pain, and no respite even in sleep, for her dreams were tortured by the memories of the inhuman look in Amanander’s eyes, his expression devoid of emotion or caring. She remembered the frigid chill which went down her spine as his gaze had fallen on her, the prickling sensation at the back of her neck as he had looked her up and down. She had known then that Amanander cared not whether every man in the fortress died.

  Jama glanced anxiously over one shoulder. “Lady, I want to try and get you out of here. You must understand, I did not know—how could I know? When I brought you here—”

  She could no longer resist the siren call of his pain. With a little sigh, she covered his hands with hers. A thin light flared, and her eyes flooded with tears. As the light faded, the tears spilled down her face and she brushed them away with the back of one hand. “Hush, Jama,” she soothed. “Tell me—what did you not know?”

  “The Prince!” Beads of sweat popped out across his forehead. “I-I—he’s a monster, lady. I know you may not believe me—but lady, I do not lie!”

  She drew a deep breath. “I know you don’t lie, Jama. I know exactly what he is—the Elders of the College were trying to stop him. That’s why I was there. He’s found a way to use Old Magic in a new and completely different way. With my help, they could have fought him.”

  The boy stared at her, eyes wide. Tears seeped down his cheeks. “Oh, lady,” he whispered. “Forgive me.”

  She shook her head sadly. “It isn’t me who must forgive you.”

  “Jama-taw,” said Vere, from his place by Alexander, “what you wanted for your people was nothing less and nothing more than what your father wanted, and his father and his father before him. But each thing comes in its time. You alone decided to use the destruction of your own people as a means to achieve an end.”

  With a vestige of dignity, Jama raised his head. “There’s nothing I can do, Lord Vere, except to try and get you all out. Reparation must be made in small stages.” He looked Annandale in the eyes. “Lady, has he touched you? Harmed you in any way?”

  Annandale shook her head. “No. It seems he has forgotten we are even here.”

  “Oh…” Jama looked over his shoulder again with a visible shudder. “He hasn’t forgotten. He forgets nothing, I think. He can—”

  “Tell me, Jama, what can he do?”

  “He—” Once more Jama turned and looked over his shoulder. “He can reach into your mind. He tak
es you— do you understand what I mean? He takes whatever part of you is you and uses it—somehow—and puts himself there instead. The men here—everyone here—all serve him. They have no will of their own. Lady, can you imagine such a thing?”

  Annandale nodded. “Oh, yes, I can well imagine it. Look at how he keeps the King alive. Abelard can neither eat nor drink, but his body lives on. And Amanander did something like that, before—only not as well. Not on such a large scale—how many men are here in the garrison?”

  Jama glanced up at the low ceiling, where ancient lines and pipes dripped corroded rust. “The army here is at least twenty-five thousand. Then you must also count the Harleyriders, all of them, from everywhere, for all I know.”

  “What?” Annandale whispered, shocked.

  “Yes.” Jama pressed his head against the bars. “Lady, I—I can’t tell you—”

  “Stop it,” she hissed. He looked at her, surprised. “There’s no point in endless apologies at this point. What is done is done. There has to be a way to get some word to Roderic—to warn him of what he faces.”

  “I haven’t told you everything, lady.”

  “What more, then?”

  “The men—when they die—he still uses them. Dead men walk till their legs rot and they can walk no more. I have seen it myself.”

  “Jama,” Annandale said, her mind reeling beneath the weight of the information, “how is it you are here?”

  Jama looked once more over his shoulder. “He can’t reach me.”

  “Why not?”

  “I—I saw the men as soon as they met us on the road. I—I have certain gifts—it’s not unusual among my people for some of us to have what we call mindskill—do you know of what I speak?”

  Annandale nodded. “I think so. So you are able to fight him?”

  “Only because I expected it—and it is hard, and growing harder. His strength is increasing. Every day it grows.” He dropped his gaze. “He comes to me in dreams. Every night. He shows me terrible things— things to make me fear, to hate—it is on these which he feeds. And once he feeds upon your fear, your hatred, he has his way into your soul.”

  “What do you do to fight him?”

  “Refuse. My will is my own. I tell myself not to hate semblances of what might never be—or to waste time hating things about which I can do nothing. It is harder not to be afraid.”

  In the sudden silence, Annandale touched his hand once more, gently. “I know.”

  “Do you, lady? There are only a few of us he cannot reach so far—three or four of my party. The rest of my men are his. They still answer to me, but they are his—I know it, and so does he.”

  “You must leave, Jama.”

  “That is what I came to tell you. I will leave, and I will take you with me. I swear it.”

  “Oh, Jama.” Annandale shook her head. “Surely I would only hinder you. Better to go yourself when you can. And get to Roderic—here—” She looked down at her hand, the nails ragged and caked with dirt. On her right hand, the little pearl ring Roderic had given her so long ago gleamed like a moon in the dim cell. She remembered the day he had given it to her—years ago now it seemed. If you should be in any danger, he had said, send me this ring, and I will come. He had spoken with such quiet conviction. Such innocents they were, then. She wriggled the ring off her finger and pressed it into Jama’s palm. “Take this ring to Roderic. He will know you speak the truth if you have it. Tell him what you have told me, and any other information you can possibly give him. And tell him I love him, with my life.”

  Jama fingered the ring as though it were the most precious jewel he had ever beheld. “Lady—I want you to come with me. I owe you a great debt. You saved the life of my best friend, and my life and the lives of all my men. I cannot leave you here.”

  Annandale sighed. “I don’t want to stay here, either, Jama. But surely you see it would be better for you to get out while you can. And as for me—” She looked over her shoulder, where Abelard lay on a bed of rags, his breathing so soft as to be nearly soundless “—I cannot leave the King. Amanander seems to have forgotten about him, too, and yet—”

  “He forgets nothing. And no one.” The young Muten’s three eyes burned in his face. “All right. We’ll try to find a way to take him, too. I owe you all.”

  Annandale sighed. “If it can be done, Jama. Only if it can be done. I would rather see you escape and get to Roderic.”

  Jama looked over his shoulder once more. “We need to go quickly if we are to be of any use to Roderic. He has laid a trap—”

  “A trap?”

  “Yes.” Jama nodded. “He hopes to lure Roderic and a main part of his army into Dlas.”

  Annandale shuddered. “Then go, Jama. Go and make what plans you can. But please, remember what I said. Better that one of us gets to Roderic than all of us die trying.”

  “Lady,” Jama met her eyes squarely, “better that all of us die trying than for one of us to live here.”

  She squeezed his fingers and was rewarded by the blush which suffused his thin cheeks. He gave her a quick smile that might have been a grin and pulled his hood over his face. He scurried away down the corridor and disappeared into the darkness.

  “I don’t like that,” said Vere softly. He came to stand beside Annandale, peering down the corridor after Jama.

  She looked up at him, surprised. “Why not?”

  “I wonder if he isn’t setting a trap for us,” replied Vere. “You were right. It’s foolishness to think he can get two sick, no, dying men out of here with a woman and another man. And Dad’s condition is so bad, I doubt he can be moved. In fact, so closely is he linked to Amanander, I doubt he can be moved at all without Aman knowing about it.” He broke off and gazed down at her speculatively. “One thing’s become clear to me, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The reason Amanander has left you alone is that he no longer needs your help in working the Magic. He seems to have found a way to prevent the backlash. But he may need Alexander.”

  “Alex? Why?”

  Vere sighed. “It’s obvious that Amanander is able to draw upon a person’s will. But somehow, he has to be getting the energy in order to do that. He must be feeding on people in some way—some way I can’t quite understand. But it seems to me that it must take a tremendous amount of energy in order to do what he does. And Alex is essentially the same person as Amanander. It would seem to me that if Aman needs energy, the first source, or maybe the most potent source, would be the person most like himself.” He glanced over his shoulder. Alexander lay near Abelard, shivering.

  “It’s as if we don’t exist,” Annandale said slowly.

  “You’re right.” Vere sighed once more, his thin shoulders rising and falling in the gloom. “He has you now. I wonder what he intends to do with you.”

  Annandale shivered. A sudden stab of longing for Rhodri, for Roderic, pierced her so poignantly that tears welled in her eyes. “I don’t even want to think about it.”

  “My dear, sweet lady.” He threw his arm around her awkwardly and hugged her. For a moment, she allowed herself to relax against him, and then, as the residue of his pain filtered into her awareness, she drew back.

  “He could keep us here long enough to make us despair,” she murmured. “Make us give up hope. If we despair, he’s won.”

  “And then we will all belong to him.” Vere stroked his beard. “All of us. He doesn’t need you, not anymore, or he would have tried to use you as soon as we arrived.”

  “But if he can make us give up, surrender of our own accord, then he’s won.” She pressed her lips together and straightened her shoulders. “So we mustn’t give up hope and we mustn’t despair, because if we do that—”

  “We belong to him.”

  A wave of loathing swept over her, nausea so acute she felt as though she might vomit. Hold fast, daughter. The voice whispered through her mind, like a scent of roses in the midst of offal. She closed her eyes, concentrati
ng on the voice. Hold fast? she wondered. For how long?

  There was a long silence, and then Vere spoke so softly in the shadows, she had to strain to hear him. “If anyone gets out,” Vere said finally, “I think it’s important to try and get Alexander out. You and I may be expendable, lady. But I would wager anything that Amanander has plans for his twin.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Despite Roderic’s impatience, several more days passed in slow progression, bringing news of neither Deirdre nor Annandale. Only a desultory progression of messages from the North trickled in, with Everard’s assurances that for now, at least, the Muten Tribes were being held in check.

  Finally, frantic with worry and angry with himself for listening to Annandale’s plea, he ordered a contingent of scouts to head into the inaccessible interior of the Pulatchians. The uncertainty was driving him mad.

  He was reviewing the maps with the leader of the scouting party when there was a knock at the door.

  “Lord Prince.” The captain of the watch stood in the doorway, uncertainly. He had left his command, which was a punishable offense, and he knew it. Roderic looked up and frowned. “What’s the problem, Captain?”

  “In the distance, my lord, there is a column of soldiers approaching. Coming up from the south.”

  “What? We’re being attacked?”

  “No, my lord. They’re ours. They look like they’re in retreat.”

  “Retreat? Come with me.” He hurried to the top of the keep, calling for Brand and Miles. As he stepped out onto the windswept roof, he could see, in the distance, a ragged column of men coming ever closer. “Captain,” Roderic ordered over his shoulder, “get men out there, horses, litters—see to their needs.”

  “At once, Lord Prince.”