Children of Enchantment (8 page)

He started to find a tall, dark shape standing by his side, well-wrapped against the weather.

“Sleepless night?” Brand’s voice was muffled almost beyond recognition by the depths of the hood which covered most of his
face.

“Brand.” Roderic wondered why he felt so relieved to realize it was his oldest brother who stood beside him in the dark. “What
are you doing out here?”

“Looking for you. A messenger came in from Ahga a few minutes ago.”

“What now?” Beneath his cloak, his shoulders tensed involuntarily.

“The Senadors are beginning to arrive at the Convening. Let’s walk a bit, shall we?” For a few minutes Brand said nothing.
“We haven’t had much chance to talk, you and I. Not since Amanander arrived.” The soil crunched beneath their feet, brittle
as old bones, and Roderic waited for his brother to continue. “Now that he’s in his tent there’re things I thought at first
that Phineas should tell you—but I don’t think it’s wise to wait. The Convening is scheduled for the first day of Prill. Most
of the Senadors are expected, and at this pace, we’ll get there just in time. But I think you should know that Amanander may
make a bid for the throne—and Alexander will probably support him.”

“Why?”

“Because many years ago, long before you were born, Dad was contracted to marry a woman named Rabica Onrada— who died giving
birth to the twins.”

“But Dad never married her?”

“In some of the estates, and this is the sticking point, a contracted marriage is as legitimate as an actual marriage. If
the Senadors who have similar laws rally around Amanander—“

“So there may be a fight when we get back to Ahga?”

Brand nodded. “If they all honor the oaths they swore when Dad named you his heir shortly after you were born, you should
be recognized as Regent with no discussion, no question. But I want to warn you that might not be the case. And then there’s
Phillip.”

Roderic paused and searched his brother’s face. “You don’t trust Phillip either?”

“Dad has seven sons—all older than you. It was a long time before you were born and Dad named you his heir. It would have
been only natural for the others to have hopes.”

“Not you.”

Brand’s face relaxed into a smile. “No. Not me. My mother was a kitchen maid—I’ve risen higher than I ever expected. But Amanander
and Alexander, their mother was the daughter of a landed Senador. And Phillip—Dad married him off to old Jarone of Nourk’s
daughter—because his mother, too, was noble, the daughter of some Mayher. Some thought Dad should name Phillip his heir.”

“What about the others? Reginald? Everard and Vere?”

“Vere ran off years ago. I doubt Dad even knows where he is. He might even he dead. Everard—his mother’s family was well entrenched
in the Dirondac Mountains across the North Sea. He has holdings there, and they’re like the Pulatchian Highlanders, not much
given to seeking outside company. As for Reginald—” Brand shook his head. Even beneath the shadow of his hood, Roderic could
see that Brand’s mouth was twisted in a bitter line. “It comes down to one thing. Dad had too many sons. The One knows he
did the best he could by all of us—put me in the Guards, married Phillip to Nourk’s daughter, put Alexander up in Spogan,
Reginald in Atland. Everard’s happy in the North Country. As for Vere, who knows? But—” Abruptly, Brand sighed. “I’m only
telling you what I think you ought to know.”

“And Amanander?”

Brand glanced over his shoulder. “I don’t trust him. He’s like a blade too well oiled; it gleams nicely, but turns too easily
in your hand. I don’t believe the story he fed us in Atland—that on his way to us, he captured a Muten war party who told
him Ebram-taw’s position, and then very conveniently escaped.”

“Then how else could he possibly have known—“

“Just where to look for Ebram-taw? I shudder to think of the possibilities. But it all seemed just too convenient. We wanted,
and needed, a speedy end to this rebellion. Amanander arrives and hands it to us on a platter.” Brand shook his head. “It’s
almost as if he wanted to get to Ahga as quickly as we did, though why, I cannot say. He’s said nothing to me to indicate
that he might make a bid for the throne—but then, he’d be foolish if he did. But thirty years with men under extreme conditions
have taught me to trust my instincts—and they tell me not to trust Amanander.”

“There’s nothing we can do at this point.”

“No. But I thought you should know what you’re walking into.” A cold blast of air sliced through their cloaks and Brand shivered.
“You’d better try to sleep. Good night.”

He turned away, then stopped when Roderic spoke once more. “Brand. Any word of Dad?”

The expression on Brand’s face reminded Roderic inexplicably of the King. Brand shook his head once more. “No. Nothing. Get
some sleep. We have a long way to travel tomorrow.”

He gave Roderic the briefest bow. Roderic watched him go, then followed, picking his way through the maze of men and supplies
and animals.

And that night he dreamed. It seemed as if he walked in a gray silence through the shadowed halls of Ahga, beneath high-vaulted
ceilings which in his dream stretched away into swirling mists. The corridors were full of gaunt, hollow-eyed people who stared
in mute misery as he passed. The weight of centuries seemed to hang in the air, and yet he had the sense of enormous strength
in the soaring walls, the firm foundations which had stood unshaken through the days of the Armageddon and all the years since.
He wandered aimlessly, and yet he did not stop or pause, yet walked on, as though his feet had a will and a purpose of their
own.

At last, he stood before the door of the King’s bedchamber, a room which customarily was guarded. But the soldiers were not
there to challenge him, and so he opened the heavy door and stepped inside.

The great chamber was dark. The King’s bed, big enough for three men and their women, was covered in sheets, the heavy drapes
drawn against the windows. The smell of dust was thick in the cold air. The fireplace, so high a man could stand in it, was
empty, the costly tiles scrubbed clean. Above the bed, the jewels in the crest of the Ridenau Kings looked like common stones
plucked from a riverbed, and even the gold lettering looked dull in the gloom. The place was like a tomb. And then he noticed
a thin line of light under the door which led into the King’s private study. He opened the door and stepped inside.

A fire burned brightly, and Abelard stood beside the hearth. “Dad!” Roderic cried.

The King smiled and held out his arms. Roderic noticed, in the curious detached way of dreams, that one arm ended in a stump,
from which the flesh hung in red strands and white bone gleamed wetly. But he did not flinch from the King’s embrace. “Dad,
what happened to you?”

Abelard shook his head.

“When are you coming back?”

Abelard’s smile changed from one of welcome to one of sadness.

“Oh,” said Roderic. “You can’t come back.”

The King shook his head again.

“I miss you, Dad.”

In the dream, Abelard was very tall. He folded Roderic in his arms as if Roderic were once again a small boy. Roderic felt
the tremendous strength in his father’s muscles. For a moment, he let himself relax in that embrace, and then the King pulled
back. With a sweep of his remaining hand, he indicated the room, the wide desk covered with rolled parchments and dispatches,
the framed maps of every corner of Meriga which hung on the walls. He drew Roderic out into the bedroom, and with another
motion, pointed to the crest hanging over the bed. His father’s broadsword, the bloodred stones shimmering in the unnatural
light, hung in its scabbard over the crest. It was the sword his father carried when he rode to war.

Despite the darkness, Roderic could see the words on the crest as clearly as though the sun shone full upon them:
Faith shall finish what hope begins.
The King swung him around so that they faced each other. It seemed in that moment Roderic grew taller, so that he and his
father were equal in height. Abelard’s eyes seemed to burn into his brain, and the words on the crest echoed through his mind,
as though Abelard had spoken them aloud.
Remember,
his father seemed to say.
Faith. Hope. In this, find your strength.

Roderic smiled, though he could feel tears welling in his eyes. “I’ll never forget you, Dad.”

The King nodded gravely, sadly, and pointed to the door with the stump of his wounded arm.

Roderic woke up on the low camp cot. The light was gray, and the smell of morning was in the air. He dressed quickly and went
outside. The camp was just beginning to stir. He watched for a moment—the men emerging from their tents, the occasional whicker
of the horses as they were fed and watered. The smell of breakfast cooking wafted by on the slow breeze.

Faith and hope. Images of the dying Mutens, the starving children, clung to him like a miasma that even the new day could
not lift. Such suffering made a mockery of platitudes. What did any of these people believe in, what could any of the Mutens
hope for? He knew what his father believed in—the sanctity of the pledge-bond, the indivisibility of the Union. Was that enough?
he wondered. Or were they only faded words on a tarnished shield? He remembered the information which Brand had given him
the night before and wondered if all the faith and hope in Meriga would indeed be enough for the task which lay ahead.

“T
here now, Tavvy.” Jesselyn Ridenau tucked the worn quilt up to her sister’s chin, and patted Tavia’s tear-streaked face. “You
have a little sleep, and tonight, Everard will be here. And he always brings you a present.”

The woman in the bed turned on her side and shut her eyes like an obedient child, despite the fact that she was more than
forty. Jesselyn straightened with a sigh and met the eyes of the nurse who stood beside the bed on the other side.

“I’m sorry to have called you away from the infirmary, Rever’d Lady, but when she gets like that, there’s no managing her.”

Jesselyn nodded and slowly caressed Tavia’s smooth cheek with her own work-worn hand. She touched her sister’s long dark braids,
which were streaked with gray. “You did right. I had to come back here anyway, just to make certain everything’s ready for
tonight.” She glanced around the room which, though small and shabby, was as cheerful as she could make it. The curtains at
the narrow window were bright yellow, tied back with blue ribbons, and the floor of scrubbed pine planks was covered with
a rug braided out of scraps as colorful as they were varied. Dried flowers bloomed in an earthenware pitcher on the table
which stood beside an empty cradle. “If there’s nothing more, I’ll leave you with her while she sleeps. She won’t wake now
for several hours.”

The nurse nodded and picked up a woven basket spilling over with mending. Jesselyn shut the rickety door softly and stepped
into the low-ceilinged hallway of what had been her home for the better part of her life in these eastern foothills of the
Okcono Mountains. She leaned back against the white-washed wall and pushed a wayward strand of fine brown hair out of her
eyes. She was more than tired—she was exhausted. She was barely thirty and felt sixty. There was so much to do between now
and the time Everard was expected. She had no idea why he was coming, though she supposed it had something to do with her
father’s disappearance, which she had heard about just a week or so ago from a traveling band of laborers who followed the
seasons in search of work. But her fatigue was not just a result of her brother’s anticipated visit. Every day was like this—as
more and more refugees streamed up from the South, and the sick and the old and the poor found their way to her door. Most
of the time all they found was an easier death.
For the harvest is plenteous, but the laborers are few.
The old words of the ancient Scripture ran through her mind unbidden, as though by reflex. She smiled a little to herself.
Renegade priest and excommunicant she might be, but she still knew her Scripture.

“Rever’d Lady?”

The voice, so soft that it might have gone unheard by any other ear, startled Jesselyn. The Muten woman stood hesitantly in
the door as if she expected to be rebuffed, her face shadowed by the worn scarf she used to hide the ugly scars of wounds
inflicted in childhood. Although Jesselyn accepted her story without question, and welcomed the woman as she did all who came
to her, nevertheless she often felt inexplicably uneasy in the woman’s presence. Jesselyn forced herself to speak as gently
as she could. “Yes, Sera? Has my brother come?”

“No, ‘m. We’ve found one of the Children in the wood— he’s in a bad way. Could you come to the infirmary?”

At once, Jesselyn forgot any misgivings about the woman and automatically gathered the patched skirts of her worn clerical
dress about her. “A bad way? Has he been hurt?”

“No, ‘m. They said it looked like the purple sickness—” Before the words were even out of Sera’s mouth, Jesselyn was out the
door and running along the beaten dirt path toward the infirmary, completely disregarding the bitter March wind. There was
no disease among the Muten population so deadly or so virulent. It was said that one could sit down to his dinner and be dead
before he raised his hand to his mouth. If this truly were the purple sickness, the sufferer must be quarantined as quickly
as possible, and it was dangerous for the Muten attendants to even so much as breathe the same air. “Mharri, Chas’n,” she
called as she stepped over the threshold of the long white building nestled among a stand of sheltering pines.