The Misbegotten King (13 page)

“To complicate our own position, the Harleyriders are on the move across Loma and southern Arkan, and appear to be poised
to take up a position just west of the border of Missiluse. As I am sure you all recall, Harland’s father entertained close
ties with the Harleyriders. It is entirely likely that the Harleyriders will ally with the southern rebels.” He paused. The
faces around the table grew grim as the implications of his words became clear.

“There’s something else you’re forgetting, Lord Prince,” said Deirdre in a dangerously soft voice. As the lone woman in the
room, her voice struck an incongruous note, and the rest of the men craned their necks to look at her. She met their stares
evenly with no trace of discomfort.

“M’Callaster?”

“The treachery which destroyed Grenvill garrison. The fact that Reginald has yet to show his face.”

“Are you saying that Reginald is the traitor?” Brand asked, his eyes narrowed.

Roderic nodded slowly. “I suppose I would prefer to forget Reginald. Alexander, tell us what Amanander told you in Ahga.”

Alexander leaned forward, his discomfort plain on his face. “In Ahga—at the Convening when Roderic was
acclaimed Regent of Meriga—Amanander told me that he intended to recruit Reginald to assist in the rebellion which was fomenting
among the southern lords—that he intended to use Reginald to break the peace in Atland any way he could.”

“By the One,” swore Kye, biting back an oath beneath his breath. “You knew this that long ago and said nothing? Do you know
how many of my men have died? Did you know this, Lord Prince?”

Roderic shook his head. “Not at the time, no. And by the time we were able to get down here, it was too late. The damage was
done.”

“So you knew this, too?” Brand shot upright.

“Alexander told me in the Settle Islands.” Roderic looked his eldest brother in the eye. “And then we were faced by the siege
of Minnis.”

“Gentlemen.” Phineas’s voice cut through the tense atmosphere like a blade. “This country is in a grave crisis. It matters
not who knew what when. The damage has been done. The garrison at Atland was lost to us the minute you rode away two years
ago, Roderic. Reginald was ripe for the picking, and Amanander saw the opportunity and took it. Now is not the time for recriminations.
Now is the time to decide what you will do.”

Roderic looked around the room. Kye still looked angry and Brand looked disgusted, but at least they had been silenced. His
eyes met the almond-shaped eyes of Obayana.

“How many troops can you field, Roderic?”

This was the question Roderic had been dreading. He drew a deep breath before replying. “Our lines are
stretched thin. If I bring the garrisons up to what they should be, I will have no reserves.”

Filem of Norda Coda raised his face to Roderic. “I can send you troops. It will take a while for them to arrive— but if I
send a messenger back to my captain in Arberdeen today, you will have them in six to eight weeks.”

“My thanks to you, Lord Senador.”

Filem shrugged. He was a relatively young man, still in his thirties, but his face was so weather-beaten and scarred it was
hard to guess his exact age. Life on the border was harsh. “I but honor my pledge, Lord Prince. If the King had not sent aid
to me and my father, the Sascatch would have overwhelmed us long ago.”

Roderic nodded slowly. This was the Meriga Abelard had envisioned, a system where each man could benefit in time of need.
He gave silent thanks to the One that his father had honored his pledge-bonds so faithfully.

“Roderic, may I speak?” Vere stirred restlessly in his chair.

Roderic nodded, still mentally calculating how best to use the troops Filem offered.

Vere rose awkwardly. “We must not underestimate the Muten threat. Their sheer numbers—”

“But Lord Vere,” interrupted Gredahl, “surely they lack supplies and equipment—”

“Not if they have joined forces with Missiluse, Reginald, and the southern rebels.”

“Wait a minute,” Gredahl said. “What makes you think they’ve joined with the rebel lords? What man of us would join with those—”
He broke off, as Vere fixed him with a steady stare.

The old man flushed and Roderic knew Gredahl had remembered the stories and the rumors which were told about Vere’s missing
years away from the court—how he had run away at fifteen, disappearing for nearly thirty years, and had spent those years
among the Mutens. He had only returned when news of Abelard’s disappearance seemed to be connected to the interests of the
Muten masters he still served.

“There’s a piece you haven’t mentioned, Roderic,” said Vere softly. “Amanander.”

“What about Amanander?” Kye looked at Roderic.

“Two weeks before we left to come here, Kye, Amanander escaped from Ahga. He did so with the aid of a Muten. It is not outside
the realm of possibility that Amanander is drawing all these threads together—the lesser lords such as Kye’s brothers and
other malcontents, Missiluse, the Harleyriders, and the Mutens, into one force.”

“That still doesn’t answer the question,” Filem said, as Gredahl nodded in agreement. “What man would join that pack of traitors,
thieves, and dogs together?”

“A man,” said Obayana softly in the sudden silence, “who will do anything if he believes it to be in his own best interests.”

Like thunder from a distant storm, a low rumble went around the table. It was inconceivable that Amanander or Reginald or
even the southern lords would join with the Mutens, and yet, Roderic knew that Obayana spoke the truth, especially when it
came to Amanander. Nothing was beyond Amanander, if he believed it would further his own ends.

“So what you’re suggesting,” Kye leaned forward, the scar on his forehead an ugly red, “is that we should expect all these
enemies to attack as one?”

“On different fronts, perhaps,” replied Phineas. “But we should not be surprised if there is a coordination to the pattern
of their moves against us.”

“So what do you require of me, Roderic?” asked Obayana.

Roderic squared his shoulders. “Full complements of troops. As many supplies as you can muster. Your men, my lord, will be
needed to reinforce the garrisons across the Arkan Plains against the Harley threat.” Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed
Gredahl nod with satisfaction. He suppressed a sigh. That answered Gredahl’s problem, but how to reinforce his own dwindling
supplies was going to be another matter.

Filem cleared his throat. “I can offer you little in the way of supplies, but Mondana sent me to say that he is sending you
a wagon train of supplies. It may even have reached Ahga by now. He told me to tell you he has not forgotten the aid you gave
when Koralane burned.”

Roderic raised an eyebrow. The lords of Mondana had suffered greatly in the fire which had swept through the Forest of Koralane
just a little over a year ago. Those supplies had to cost the depleted lords dearly. “I will send him a message tonight, with
my thanks, Filem.”

“Well, there’s always Vada,” said Brand. “We might not be able to compel Owen to send his men, but we can take his grain.
And Reez of Rissona is good for a couple thousand men at least—there’re more troops to shore up the garrisons in western Arkan.”

Roderic nodded slowly. He had desperately hoped that it wouldn’t be necessary to compel anyone to do anything, and yet, despite
his invitations, it seemed that nothing was going to change.

“I say we do compel him,” put in Kye. “Why should Mortmain and the rest of the Western lords sit behind the Saranevas and
grow fat while we bear the brunt of this war?”

“Because as a practical matter, we cannot force him to send his men,” replied Brand. “We barely have the numbers we need now.
And there is another matter. If the West were to know how desperate the situation is here, they might be tempted to rise again.”

Roderic stared at his brother. That was a possibility he had never even considered. Involuntarily his eyes went to Deirdre.
Her face was unreadable, and he knew doubts concerning the recent treaties with Mondana gnawed at her.

“Brand is right about Rissona,” said Obayana. “Old Ezram is still alive and he never leaves his estate anymore, but young
Reez can be counted on.”

Roderic drew a deep breath and frowned down at the hide map of Meriga on the table. “If we deploy your troops and Rissona’s
in Arkan, that will free the main body of the army to concentrate on the main threat. At this point, it looks as though we
will have to rely on Everard and Phillip to hold the Northern Tribes in check.” He raised his head and looked at Miles. “It
seems, Lord Senador, that this war will be fought from Ithan.” He cleared his throat. “Is it by your leave?”

Miles nodded. “You have my permission, Lord
Prince, to move whatever is required into Ithan. The Tennessy Fall stands with the throne of Meriga.” He spread his hands.

Brand cocked his head, frowning at the map. “There’s a weak link, Roderic. Do you see it?”

Roderic looked down at the map once more. The outpost garrisons were marked in circles, the larger ones with squares, and
the largest of all with stars, all of them scattered across Meriga in a seemingly random pattern. “If we fortify the garrisons
in Arkan—”

“It’s Dlas, don’t you see?” Brand stabbed a finger on the map. “Look—Missiluse is just to the east—the Harleyriders are going
to go right through if what we think is true.”

Roderic looked up quickly. There was another reason Brand was concerned. Barran, Brand’s son, just a few years older than
Roderic, was in command of the garrison.

“The garrison must be strengthened. Immediately.” Brand folded his arms across his chest.

Roderic glanced at Phineas. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Deirdre raise an eyebrow questioningly. Brand was right. Even
if one forgot that it was his son in potential danger, Brand was right. He nodded. “I think you’re right, Brand. I will send
out troops immediately to reinforce the garrison—you’ll see that a messenger goes on ahead?”

Brand nodded, and a look of understanding passed between the two brothers. “All right. Now—” Roderic folded his arms over
his chest. A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. “Yes?”

The door opened and a servant peered timidly into the room. “I-I beg your pardon, Lord Senador, but the Lady Norah sent me
to tell you the feast is ready. She would prefer you to come and eat it now.”

Roderic glanced at Miles, who shook his head. “All right, we’ll be right there. I’m sorry, Lord Prince.”

Roderic smiled. “It’s all right. I’d like to meet again later, after the food. I need a better idea of what our strengths
are, and our weaknesses.” The men got to their feet. Brand and Vere picked up Phineas’s litter. As they filed out, Deirdre
hung back. He smiled at her as he plucked at the edges of the hide map.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

He shrugged and shook his head. “I hoped this would be a true Convening, Deirdre. Instead—” He broke off and stared down at
the map, reading the potential disaster in its faded lines and circles. He ran a hand through his hair. “Well. You’ve been
wounded. Are you all right?” That this was the first time he had been alone with her in months ran through his mind, and abruptly
he wondered why that mattered.

It was her turn to shrug. “Tis nothing that won’t heal.”

“But that’s your sword arm—will you be able—”

“Aye,” she snapped.

Taken aback, they stared at each other. Roderic was suddenly conscious of the exact distance of the space between them, of
the fire which smoldered in the depths of her eyes. He nodded slowly, fearing to risk offending her pride. “As you say, Deirdre.
Forgive me, I didn’t mean to doubt your ability.”

“No,” she said, looking away. “I know.” She took a deep breath and tossed the end of her plaid over her shoulder. “The feast
awaits, Lord Prince. If we don’t go to eat it, I think we’ll have battle with Lady Norah, and she’s not one to cross. Shall
we go?” She opened the door and stood aside, waiting for him to go first.

He caught a whiff of her scent, a blend of leather and soap and something indefinable that was uniquely her, as he walked
past, and he wondered what words went unspoken between them.

A
full moon had risen above the walls, pale and flat as the eye of a dead fish, Deirdre noticed as she stepped onto the terrace.
She stared moodily at the moon, plucking at the frayed edges of her plaid.

From the hall, music filtered out, and the song the harper sang seemed to speak to her:

Farewell to fame and fortune

Farewell to arms and strife

I lay down all my weapons

And offer up my life.

For all my years of fighting

And all the arts of war

Are nothing if my lady

Will love with me no more.

And all my restless wanderings

They never brought me home;

If I cannot have my lady

I’d rather die alone.