Children of Enchantment (18 page)

Roderic let the horse fall back several paces, wrapped the reins around one hand, and drew his short sword from the scabbard
on his hip. As the animal sprang at the horse’s neck, Roderic pulled hard on the reins, forcing the stallion to rear, and
he slashed the edge of the sword through the lycat’s throat. A heavy paw raked at his shoulder, and he felt the burn and sting
as the sharp claws tore through his leather armor, piercing the flesh below. He managed to turn the horse’s rump out of the
way, so that the lycat fell with a thud to the ground. Dust rose in a cloud, and settled slowly. The last air escaped the
Iycat’s lungs in a long, rattling sigh, and it went limp.

Still breathing heavily, Roderic leapt out of the saddle and flung the reins around the lowest limb of the nearest tree.

He wiped the sword hastily on his thigh. Forgetting the pain in his own arm, he grabbed the flask of water tied to his saddle,
and hastened to the child, who lay just as the lycat had thrown him, like a discarded bundle.

The child moaned. He was a boy, about six or seven, a tiny dagger still clenched in a bloody fist. The wound in his throat
gaped, bubbles of blood rose with each shallow breath.

Mercifully the boy was unconscious. Roderic looked around, wishing he had not sent the others on their way, for there was
nothing he could do for the child except to try and take him back to Minnis. He had no idea where the Wilding camp might be.
And yet, if moved, the boy was likely to die before they ever reached it. Kneeling, he placed one hand on the child’s forehead.
Already the flesh was clammy and grayish. The boy breathed in long, harsh gasps that ended in a rattle. Beneath the torn stripes
of pink flesh and yellow fat, Roderic saw the gleam of white bone. It would not be long now.

He sighed and tore a length of fabric off the bottom of his tunic. He poured water on the rag and bathed the child’s face.
At the touch of the cool water, the child shifted feebly and moaned again. Roderic splashed more water on the rag, and held
it to the child’s lips, pressing it so a little water ran down into the boy’s mouth. He adjusted his sword across his thigh
and sat against the tree trunk.

The breeze ruffled his hair, drying the sweat on his face. Gently, he touched the child’s back. The clearing was preternaturally
quiet, except for the slow drone of the flies which had found the carcass and the rustle of leaves in the branches over his
head. There was a difference between watching a man die in battle and a child die so senselessly. And then, unbidden, a vision
of Atland rose before him, a vision of the helpless wretches who had died at least as painfully as this. Surely it had been
no different for them than for this boy. And I was responsible, he thought, as surely as if I had wielded the dagger and the
sword. How could I have done such a thing? How will I ever forget?

He dabbed once more at the child’s face, and was about to lean back when some instinct brought him suddenly alert. The hair
on the back of his neck rose. He crouched, left hand on the hilt of his dagger.

In the shadows beneath the trees across the clearing, a figure stood, slim as a young beech, dressed in a motley assortment
of rags. Male or female he could not tell, but the person was smaller than he, and certainly looked no threat. “Come out,”
he called.

The figure stepped into the clearing and looked around as though to see who else might be watching. Roderic realized it was
a girl, no more than his own age.

“The lycat’s dead.” Roderic gestured to the body of the fallen animal. “Come, there’s nothing to fear.”

As she came closer, Roderic saw that her clothes—a short tunic and leggings—were even more ragged than the ones he had seen
the Wildings wearing, and clumsily patched, as though an unskilled hand had done the work. But perhaps, he thought, yesterday’s
delegation had deliberately dressed in their finest. Her feet were bare, though so dirty they appeared at first glance to
be shod. Dark unruly curls fell in a rich mass about her face, bound back only by what appeared to be an attempt at a coif
such as the ladies of the court wore. The pathos of this made him peer more closely at her. He caught a glimpse of a straight
nose, cleft chin, and full, rosy lips before she bent her head away from him. He gestured to the child lying in the grass.

“Do you know him?” Roderic beckoned impatiently, for the girl seemed reluctant to approach. “Is there
a
camp nearby? Can you take word to your people, bring help?”

“I will take him.” The girl’s voice was low and sweet, with nothing of the northern burr of the Wilding’s speech, and there
was some familiarity of cadence which made him wary.

At this extraordinary statement, Roderic squinted up at her, as she stood silhouetted against the sun. “He’s dying. You can’t
possibly take him anywhere. If your people are close enough and you will show me the way, perhaps we can take him on my horse.”

“I will take him.”

At this, Roderic rose. Perhaps the girl was a little simple. Such a thing was common he had heard, amongst the Wildings, who
kept to themselves and were said to interbreed. She kept her face averted. He resisted the sudden urge to rug her chin around
to look at him. “You can’t.”

“I must.”

“The child’s nearly dead—“

“And he’ll die if you don’t let me take him.” This was spoken with such conviction that Roderic narrowed his eyes.

“You’re nothing but a child yourself. He’s much too heavy—“

“While we stand and argue, he is dying.”

There was unmistakable truth to this, and Roderic stepped aside. She walked past him, knelt beside the boy, and a long shudder
seemed to pass through her as she laid a dirt-smudged hand on the child.

“I told you it was bad,” he said.

She raised her face, and he saw tiny beads of sweat had formed on her upper lip, across her forehead. She looked as though
she were about to faint. He narrowed his eyes, wondering if it were some trick of the shadows that there was something familiar
about her, something he ought to recognize. He leaned closer, and instantly she turned her face away, but not before he caught
a glimpse of eyes a vivid and intense shade of blue.

“Not too far from here, there’s a track through the wood,“

she said. “Do you know it?” She refused to face him, almost, he thought, as though she feared he might know her. But there
had been no women amongst the Wilding party yesterday.

“It leads to a lake.” He tried to see past her profile, but a lock of her thick hair had fallen down her cheek.

“His—our people are there. Take your horse. I’ll stay with him.”

Roderic hesitated. There was logic in her words, and yet the feelings she roused in him had nothing to do with logic. He realized
with a start that he had no wish to leave her, that somehow to remove himself from her presence was to lose something precious
yet so intangible it defied definition. There was something magnetic about this girl, something that appealed to him beyond
reason or even simple lust. She had aroused him by her very presence, and yet his need to possess her was at once more compelling,
and less explicable, than anything he had ever felt before. His flesh seemed to expand beneath his clothing. By an act of
will out of all proportion to the situation, he turned to go, thought again and turned back. She had her hand on the child
and was leaning closer over the still figure. He thought he heard another moan.

“Go!” It was a low, choking sound, and it spurred him on.

He mounted the horse and followed the trail. Originally it had been a road, for here and there black pieces of ancient paving
lay revealed beneath the encroaching underbrush. The trail itself led directly down into the lake. He stopped on the sandy
shore, looked around. There was no sign at all of any human habitation.

He had been tricked. With a curse, he jerked the horse around and the stallion reared and whinnied in protest. He crashed
back through the wood, back to the clearing, and stopped. The girl and the child were gone. He clucked at the horse, and flapped
the reins, and obediently, it moved slowly forward. The lycat’s body was where he had left it, flies buzzing around its wounds
and bloody jaws. He retrieved his spear.

Roderic guided the horse over to the tree. A slight depression in the long weeds, as well as smears of congealing blood, marked
the place where the child had lain. He got off the horse and touched the crushed weeds. The blood was sticky. Some of it had
formed a gelatinous clump, and flies crawled eagerly over it. His stomach churned with disgust. The girl could not have carried
the child away. She might have been able to drag the body, but—

Roderic examined the ground for the marks of a body being dragged. There was nothing. Slowly, he straightened. The sun was
at its height and sweat trickled down between his shoulder blades. The horse whickered and stamped impatiently. Absently Roderic
patted its head as it nosed at him and snorted. There was something very odd about the girl. It was almost as though he should
have known her—and yet, surely, yesterday had been the closest contact he’d ever had with the Wildings in his life. Slowly,
still troubled, he mounted the horse. There was nothing more he could do—the responsibility for whether the child lived or
died had been taken from his hands. He clucked, and the stallion turned eagerly for home. But the girl—why had she lied? She
had seemed genuinely concerned for the child. Perhaps the camp was nearer—it was well known that the Wildings were extremely
secretive. But surely, she should have needed help. Sighing, he shook his head and rode slowly back to Minnis, leaving the
mystery behind him.

He knew something was wrong when he saw the soldiers on the walls cry out at his approach, and Brand himself came running
to grasp his bridle. “What is it?” he began, but Brand cut him off without any attempt at ceremony.

“The escort you sent for Jesselyn arrived. She’s dead.”

R
oderic stared at Brand in disbelief. “Dead?” he repeated. “How?”

Brand handed the reins to a groom. “Come with me. The sergeant of the company is in the hall—along with Tavia and Vere.”

“Tavia? Vere?” The names meant nothing. Both brother and sister were much older, and long gone from Ahga, and their lives
had never, for a moment, impacted upon his. He searched his memory as he followed Brand, trotting at his brother’s heels just
to keep up. Tavia had been wed to some Senador’s son long before his birth, and some tragedy surrounded her. Abelard had mentioned
her rarely, and always with regret. And Vere—Vere had left Ahga long ago, his name never spoken. He had gone in the chaotic
days of Mortmain’s Rebellion, and no one knew where. As far as Abelard was concerned, Vere might as well have been dead. But
now he was here—turned up in Jesselyn’s company, a nams and a face so long forgotten surely few remembered him.

In the hall he was met by a scene which could only be described as organized chaos. Women from the kitchens ran here and there,
bringing water and linen bandages, and on the floor in front of one high hearth lay a long bier covered in a plain white shroud.

On the floor alongside the opposite hearth lay another pallet, and here the women clucked and tripped over each other like
a gaggle of geese. Soldiers in travel-stained uniforms sat in silent clusters, drinking and eating a hastily served meal.
At the entrance, Roderic paused and laid a hand on Brand’s arm. “What’s going on?”

“Sergeant—” Brand motioned. A grizzled veteran limped forward, mud clinging to his boots. Roderic recognized him. He had fought
long and hard in the service of the King, but refused to retire even though he had earned his respite many times over. He
had volunteered to lead the escort.

“Sergeant Tom?” Roderic unbuckled his sword belt and handed it to a passing servant.

“Lord Prince.” The old Sergeant’s salute was as crisp as ever.

“Tell me what happened. How did my sister die?”

“We don’t rightly know, Lord Prince. We found ‘em all in a camp just near the toll plaza at the outermost boundary of the
Ridenau lands. Lord Vere—we didn’t know it was him, sir, until Captain Brand recognized him—he’s bad wounded. The Lady Jesselyn,
we found her lying in a pool of her own blood, her throat cut. And the other lady—Lady Tavia—she couldn’t tell us nothing.”
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, where Peregrine sat spoonfeeding a woman with long dark braids.

“You’ve no idea who did this?”

“No, sir. There was nothing to tell us anything. The Captain of the guard at the toll plaza, he was just as horrified as we
were. If word gets round the country, he’s like to have a panic on his hands. But the murderers made a real mistake. They
left Lord Vere for dead. If he gets better, maybe he can tell you.”

“What about Tavia?” Roderic looked at Brand.

Brand averted his eyes. “You’d better come see for yourself.”

Mystified, Roderic followed his brother to the dais. Peregrine looked up with a troubled expression.

He bowed to Tavia and extended his hand. As his eyes met hers, his words of welcome died on his lips. The woman who crouched
on the low stool stared past and beyond hin, looking into some unseen unknown. She crooned tunelessly under her breath, and
her eyes were blank and blue. Her face was pale and unlined, like a child’s, and she clutched a bundle, vaguely shaped like
a baby, to her bosom. Her garments were of rough homespun wool, and they stood out around her like bulwarks. “What happened
to her?”