Children of Enchantment (6 page)

Reginald hefted his drink with a snort. “You mean to tell me that in all the months we’ve been fighting in this godforsaken
wilderness, just as we need something—anything—to break these four-armed dogs—all of a sudden, you show up with information
you say will change the tide of this campaign? Roderic might believe that explanation, but do you really expect me to believe
you just stumbled upon this information on the way here? Just by luck?”

Amanander avoided looking at Reginald. There was too much about this stocky, ham-fisted brother with stubbled chin and lank,
thinning hair hanging around his broad face that repulsed him. And he certainly did not intend to explain how he got his information
or his reasons for wanting a speedy end to the campaign to Reginald. Not yet.

Instead, he rose and pulled the tent flap open wider. The damp night air blew some of Reginald’s stench out into the mist.
Fog swirled, obscuring almost everything except the black smudges of the nearby tents. Even sound was muted. It was a perfect
night for a raid.

Thin lines of light shone from underneath the closest tent, where Roderic labored long into the night, awaiting Brand’s return
and the outcome of the foray which Amanander sincerely hoped would be the last of the entire campaign. But Rodcric always
kept late hours for one so young. At the thought of Roderic, safely cocooned with Brand and the loyal soldiers of the King’s
Guard, a line deepened between Amanander’s brows. Ferad had been more correct than Amanander wanted to admit. This would not
be easy.

He had not been prepared for the youth who had greeted him with such cool appraisal in his light grey-green eyes. It was not
insolence, far from it. In fact, in council, Roderic spoke only seldom, deferring to all his brothers, in a manner which would
have bordered on the obsequious had it been any less sincere. But there was something in the way he carried himself, something
in the lift of his head and the set of his shoulders, that spoke louder than any words and which rasped like steel over slate
across Amanander’s nerves. It was the assurance which clung to Roderic like a cloak, the certainty that he indeed was the
heir of Meriga, and that, no matter how much more competent the others were, the land they fought to preserve was his; his
and his alone. And even Reginald responded to this instinctively, while Amanander hung back and gritted his teeth.

Even now, while most in the camp slept, or took their ease, he knew that Roderic could be found poring over a map or a list
of supplies, making endless calculations, studying the notes his scribe made from the reports of the scouts. It was unnatural
that one so young should be so diligent. And it angered Amanander, for it confirmed his growing realization that young though
Roderic might be, he would very shortly be a formidable foe. He had even tried, once or twice, to find a way into the youth’s
mind, as Ferad had taught him, but Roderic was so focused, and so intent, that such a thing had proven impossible.

He had considered killing Roderic outright, though he was so completely surrounded by guards, and so constantly in the company
of Brand, or one of his lieutenants, that such an opportunity never arose. Besides, a murder would only rouse the Congress,
and he could not yet afford to discount the Senadors’ wrath. So Amanander had quickly come to the conclusion that Ferad’s
advice to let Roderic have the regency was sound. But forced to bide his time, that patience was most sorely tested, and he
was determined that this foray into At-land would end as soon as possible. He had to get to Ahga and try to discover the fate
of Abelard’s witch.

But Reginald was speaking, and Amanander let the tent flap fall shut. “… if this fails?”

Amanander turned back with a thin smile. “It won’t.”

Shouts coming from the perimeter of the camp awakened Roderic out of a sound sleep. It seemed that he had only just laid his
head upon the pillow, but he opened his eyes to a grayish, predawn gloom, and the realization that the stub of the candle
he had left burning in the crude stone cup had long ago smoked away.

Months of campaigning had taught him to come instantly alert, and with one hand he reached for the boots beneath his cot,
and with the other for the sword which hung on a hook just within his grasp.

“Lord Prince!” The guard who burst into the tent made only the briefest bow and gestured wildly into the dawn. “The Muten
leader—we have him—“

“What? Already?” Roderic did not quite believe what he thought he heard. He pulled his boots on and strightened his tunic.
The guard did not have time to reply, for Brand’s tall shape loomed in the opening.

He pushed past the guard, who snapped to attention and saluted. “Let’s go, Roderic.”

“Is it possible you found—” He paused over the foreign name. The early morning air was thick with dampness. Mist swirled around
their ankles, and the breeze which ruffled his hair did not cool.

“Ebram-taw,” Brand answered shortly. “We got him. The information Aman gave us was right. We brought him in with about thirty
of his fellows. It looks as though our luck has finally turned.”

Brand stepped aside and held open the flap of the command tent, allowing Roderic to pass in front of him. The tallow lamps
added to the rank smell of unwashed men, horses, and sour ale. As Roderic’s eyes adjusted to the light, he saw Reginald and
Amanander already there, in chairs on the periphery.

Roderic sat down behind the rough wooden table which served as a desk as well as a council table. Usually he found Amanander’s
presence unnerving, but he was so excited at the prospect of this confrontation, he forgot him. He gripped the arms of the
chair as the Muten was dragged in, heavy chains dangling from its wrists.

The men-at-arms threw him on his knees. He lay unmoving on the dirt floor and met Roderic’s eyes unblinking. No one spoke
for what seemed a long time.

Finally, his heart thudding in his chest, in a voice he hoped did not quiver, Roderic said, “Bring a chair for our guest.”

The Muten spat in the dirt before the table when he was seated.

Roderic startled back by reflex. It was the first chance he’d had to observe an adult Muten so closely. His powerful primary
arms were bound before him, the heavy steel chains glinting in the shadowy half-light. His small secondary arms were folded
firmly across his chest, and Roderic was reminded that in the ruling families, these appendages were fully functional. The
tiny hands were clenched in defiant fists. His skin was the terra-cotta color of raw clay, and his eyes were black and glared
with unconcealed hatred. The third eye, above and centered between the other two, seemed to stare past and through him.

Involuntarily, Roderic shuddered. It was said that with that third eye, the Mutens could look into a man’s soul and suck it
out. He wore only leather trousers, and black, soft skin boots. His hair was long and gray, and his face was marked in deep
lines cut into swirls and triangles on his cheeks.

Brand leaned down, spoke close into his brother’s ear. “Dad knew this one well. He’s the leader of the whole Southern Alliance
of Tribes. I knew him as soon as I saw him, even though it’s been a dozen years since he was brought before the King.”

Roderic cocked his head. “So you are known to my father.”

The Muten spat again.

One of the men-at-arms raised the butt of his spear and would have struck the Muten, but Roderic stopped him with a wave of
his hand. “How long must we continue this, Ebramtaw?”

“Your peace is not ours.” His voice was low and deep, and his accent fractured the words, but Roderic understood his speech.

“I will not debate you. Take this message back to your brethren. Either lay down your spears and swords by daybreak tomorrow,
or—“

“You are a boy. We do not deal with children. Where is the one who calls himself King of all Meriga?”

“My father’s of no concern to you. I am Prince of Meriga, and his armies are mine.”

“Claim all the armies you wish. We are the Children of the Magic, and we do not call your father King.”

“You lie, Ebram-taw.” Brand spoke up. “A dozen years ago, the King of Meriga received your tribute and your pledge, and you
promised not to raise arms against your neighbors or your King.”

“We paid tribute that our women not be slaughtered.”

“You have broken your pledge.”

“We made no pledge.”

“You lying, four-armed louse.” Reginald swaggered into the center of the tent, thumbs hooked in his belt. The Muten flinched,
but one small arm flailed out. Reginald caught it and gave it a cruel twist.

“Hold, Reginald.” Roderic held up one hand.

Reginald turned to face his brother. “Nothing’s to be gained from speaking with this vermin, Lord Prince. Let my men beat
the spirit out of it. It’s the only thing it understands.”

Roderic looked from his sweating, red-faced brother to the Muten who sat as still as the thick air in the tent. “I’ll consider
that. But I must speak to this—this person before I decide.”

Reginald’s mouth tightened. “As you say.” He stumped out of the tent, hand clenched on the hilt of his dagger.

Roderic watched him go, then looked at the Muten. “Shall we have peace?”

“There can be no peace so long as the son of the Ridenau sits in Alant-Jorja. You stumble in the dark, and see not with your
two blind eyes. You take our land, you burn our crops so that our children starve and yours grow fat. You invade our sacred
places, bring your herds to foul our sacred ground. You are people without souls or spirit. You are already dead.”

Roderic leaned forward. He wanted desperately to understand this Muten, to end the fighting rather than drag the campaign
on. The latest dispatch from Phineas set the date of the Convening for the first day of Prill, and the beginning of the spring
rains made for miserable conditions. “We Ridenaus brought peace—“

“You know your lessons well.”

“I have no wish to slaughter your people, Ebram-taw. Could you not tell your brethren—“

“I am not your messenger. We are not your slaves. We are the Children of the Magic.”

“Then use the Magic against us, Child of the Old Magic.” Amanander purred from the shadows, and the hair on the back of Roderic’s
neck rose.

The Muten looked in the direction of the sound, and Roderic had the unnerving thought that he could see Amanander in the darkness.
Ebram-taw answered so quietly, Roderic had to strain to hear him. “The Magic must not be used—“

“Must not?” Amanander flowed like a shadow into the center of the tent. “You cannot use it, though your lives might depend
upon it.” He laughed, low and cruel. “Go back to your warrens.”

The Muten drew himself up, and the muscles of his arms and chest strained against his bonds. He sat on the crude camp stool
as proudly as the King upon the throne of Meriga. “We keep the memories—”

“But can your memories keep us from your walls?”

Roderic was confused and disturbed by Amanander’s words. There was an undertone, a meaning that Roderic could not quite grasp.
“Do you know the Magic?” he asked the Muten curiously.

Amanander stood behind the Muten like a predator poised for the kill. “It’s not enough to know it, is it, Ebram-taw? One must
understand it.”

“That is not for such as you to know.”

“And not for such as you, either. For not one among your warriors can raise the smallest flame, shift the smallest pebble,
bend the thinnest steel.” He clapped the Muten’s shoulder in a parody of comraderie, and even Roderic winced.

“Roderic—Brand—” Reginald burst into the tent. “To arms—the camp’s attacked!” Blood ran from a wound on his leg. Brand reacted
instantly. He drew his sword and ran from the tent shouting orders, with Reginald at his heels.

Outside, soldiers ran past the open flaps, and Roderic heard the clash of metal and the thunk of arrows and spears. The guards
snapped to attention as he stood up.

“Stay here. Guard the prisoner.” He beckoned to Amanander. “Come.” As they reached the opening, Roderic hesitated and stepped
aside.

Amanander smiled. “Always cover your back, little brother. Always.”

Then they were in the midst of the confusion. Men ran past, hastily buckling on leather armor, unsheathing swords, or slinging
quivers over their shoulders.

Black smoke billowed from tents set afire. Roderic stopped short and tried to assess the situation. Horses screamed, frightened
by the fire, and the sergeants of the regiments frantically tried to rally their men into some semblance of order. His eyes
watered from the smoke, and he coughed. In that instant, three white-painted Mutens attacked.

Roderic swung his broadsword blindly, dodging the vicious slash of the long razor-edged spears. One whistled through the air
near his head. He ducked and fell to one knee, wondering briefly where Amanander was. His broadsword connected with legs,
and a Muten fell screaming as the tendons were severed.

He whirled around and sliced his backstroke across another’s midsection. As another puff of smoke blinded him, he heard Brand
cry: “Hold!”

Roderic crouched, warily. A razor spear sang through the air. He blocked it, and with a swift motion, brought the Muten to
its knees, the edge of his sword held against its throat. The razor spear clattered to the ground.

“Well done, Roderic.” Brand materialized out of the hazy smoke, wiping his hands on his bloody tunic.

“Is it over?”

“Of course. They must have been trying to rescue Ebramtaw. I don’t know what possessed them to try it—I suppose they thought
to take us unawares.”

“How many are still alive?” Roderic prodded the Muten with the flat of his sword as two guards grabbed it by the arms and
jerked it up roughly. Behind the mask of paint, its three eyes stared fixedly, its feet twisting as they dragged it away.

“Lord Prince.” One of the lieutenants saluted. “Captain.”

“Well?” asked Brand.

“Thirty-five of ours dead. Twenty-three injured. One horse trampled.”

“And them?” Roderic wiped the blood from his blade.