The Misbegotten King (6 page)

“It isn’t mine to give you,” answered Ferad softly. “Don’t you remember?”

Across the empty space, Amanander stared at Ferad as memory after memory fell into place, like the layers of an onion. The
disappearance of his father, Abelard, Roderic’s regency, the Muten revolt, Alexander’s betrayal, the discovery of Nydia’s
daughter, the empath, Annandale, whose very nature was the key to the control of the Magic. In the depths of the dark, startling
eyes, Amanander saw the past unfurl, his own core of memories restored. “My father?”

“I’ve kept him alive. He’s with me, now.”

“Where are you?”

“I’ve moved east of Dlas—into the Missiluse lowlands. My brotherhood has been on the move; we have successfully infiltrated
the College of the Elders and annihilated at least fifteen of the oldest. And the most powerful.”

“And Roderic?”

“Well within your reach. He’s here, at Ahga. The empath has borne him a son.”

“An heir.” Amanander rose to his feet with a curse. “So much time has passed—I’ve lain here like a cripple—what can I do?
Can we kill him?”

“Not so easily, my Prince. Do you think this trick is easy? I only broke through you because you were completely weak, defenseless.
Your body is not what you remember. You’re a wasted shell compared to what you once were. Even to get you out of the bed you
lie in will require the Magic, and to get you out of Ahga and back to me—”

“Why should I come back to you?”

Ferad leaned against the chair. “Your impatience has cost you dearly, my Prince. I would have thought you’d have learned some
lessons in all these months, but I see the time has been wasted. Allow me to instruct you. You have no power here. You can’t
even summon a jar to piss in. The moment you wake, Roderic will have you arrested, taken from this relatively comfortable
room, and placed in a decidedly uncomfortable cell under heavy guard. And then he will call a Convening, and you will stand
trial for the crimes of your sister Jesselyn’s murder,
the trouble in the Settle Islands, where you masqueraded so successfully as your twin, Alexander, and for inciting a rebellion
against the throne.” Ferad smiled as understanding at his predicament washed over Amanander’s face. “Now you begin to see.”

“What’s your solution?”

“You will listen to me very carefully. And you will do exactly what I say.”

The lone candle cast a gentle gleam across the room as Annandale gently disengaged the sleeping baby from her breast. A drop
of milk seeped from the corner of the tiny mouth, and the child gave a deep satisfied sigh. She brushed a kiss on his round,
pink cheek with the back of one finger, caressed the comical thatch of dark hair which stuck up in all directions from his
head. The door opened and shut, and without looking up, she knew at once that Roderic had come. She raised her finger to her
mouth in a warning.

Roderic halted just inside the door. “Is he asleep?”

She nodded, drew her nightrobe together, and rose. With a few quick strides, Roderic was beside her, gazing down at the infant
in her arms with such tenderness it made her want to weep. She nestled her head in the hollow of his shoulder. He drew her
chin up to his face, and bent to kiss her, when he saw her tears.

“Why do you weep?” he whispered.

She shook her head. She placed the baby in his cradle and picked up the candle. When she had shut the door behind them, he
repeated the question.

“It’s nothing—no reason.” She brushed at her eyes.
“Just a silly thing—women get this way, you know, after childbirth.”

“No,” he said gravely, watching her closely, “I didn’t know.”

“Your expression when you looked at Rhodri—you looked as though you would fight a thousand men rather than let one hair of
his be harmed.”

“I would,” he said, “for you both.”

He reached for her, and she leaned into him, catching the flavor of his desire, his need. She nuzzled against him, savoring
the closeness of his body, the warm masculine scent so different from the baby’s. But there was something else, some sense
of uneasiness, and she drew back, even as he pressed her closer against him, and she heard the unmistakable crinkle of parchment
beneath his tunic.

“Is it too soon?” he murmured.

She pulled back, searching his eyes, so soft and green in the shadows, so different from Abelard’s eyes, and wondered once
more why no one had ever realized the total lack of resemblance between the King and his heir. “No.” She reached up and drew
his face down to hers. “Not at all. But what is wrong? Something is bothering you.”

He gave her a rueful smile. “By the One, love, I will never have a secret from you, will I?” He sighed heavily and withdrew
to sink into one of the chairs beside the hearth.

“What is it?” she asked again, as his disquiet wound itself about her like the tendrils of a clinging vine.

“A messenger came in from Brand just now. Things
are going badly in Atland. Old Kranak’s younger sons destroyed Grenvill garrison. That was one of our more strategic outposts.
Our men are cut off from supplies… they have little choice but to fall back into the Highlands and try to regroup. I need
to find reinforcements. I know Phillip is likely to refuse—courteously, of course, and Everard is so far away….” His voice
trailed off.

She listened in growing dismay, watching the flames flicker over his narrow face. She felt the burden of his regency as a
tangible thing. The charge the King had laid upon him was a weight that grew more heavy with each passing day. He sighed once
more, and the sound reverberated deep in her chest.

“What else?”

He raised his head and met her eyes squarely, and from the recesses of his tunic he withdrew a scrap of paper. He held it
out to her, and with trembling fingers she reached and took it. At once the impression of pain—torment beyond her comprehension—lanced
through her body and she gasped, the paper fluttering from her grip.

“Annandale!” He was on his feet and beside her, his arms supporting as her knees weakened.

“Who-whoever wrote that died in great agony,” she muttered, clutching his sleeve.

He shook his head. “I cannot say—”

“I can,” she said.

“But Vere sent it—he found it on some poor wretch by the roadside, said Brand—and you know what it means.”

Annandale stared at the shaky lines, the black script which snaked the lancets of pain into the very marrow of her bones.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I do.”

He bent his head to gather her mouth to his, and she froze in his embrace as foreboding swept over and through her as though
something had doused her with ice water. Momentarily the room seemed to darken, the shadows to grow and deepen, reaching from
the corners with grasping tentacles. The candles guttered as though a chilling wind blew through the room.

“What is it?” He tilted her chin up, a puzzled expression on his face. “Sweet, what I can do about these things tonight has
been done. Put it from your mind. But if it’s too soon for you—”

“No.” She twisted her hands in the fabric of his tunic, clutching him closer. “It’s not that—it—” Her eyes darted around the
room.

“What, then?” His gaze followed hers, every muscle suddenly tense. Beneath her hands she felt his heart begin to beat faster.

She hesitated. She wanted to say nothing was wrong, and yet she had the profoundest sense that something was more than wrong,
something was out of synchrony. The air itself was too thick to breathe— “By the One,” she whispered, as understanding dawned.
“It’s the Magic. Someone is using the Magic.”

Without another word, she flung the door to the inner chamber wide and darted into the baby’s room. The room was quiet, peaceful,
the infant’s breathing deep and even in the stillness. Instinct made her reach for him, cradle him close to her breast, and
behind her, Roderic spoke from the doorway. “What can we do?”

She turned to face him, and her words were drowned out by a thunderous crack, and the whole building—all
twenty-five stories—shuddered on its foundations. There was an enormous roaring screech as, on the opposite side of the wide
inner ward, one of the five towers of Ahga sank into a massive heap of rubble. Over the rumbling crash, she heard the screams
of men and animals. Roderic reached for them both and wrapped his arms around her, bracing himself in the doorway, shielding
her with his own body. The baby stirred and whimpered in her frantic grip. Roderic pressed her head against his chest as the
whole building heaved once more like an animal in its death throes, and then was still.

He rushed to the window. “By the One.”

She peered outside. Although the darkness obscured the view, it appeared that one side of the stables had collapsed, folding
in upon itself like a house of cards, an enormous pile of stones and tangled lines. In the wards below, the grooms and the
men-at-arms called frantically, trying to rescue what horses they could before the fragile structure collapsed further.

Roderic turned to her. “I’ve got to get down there. Will you be all right here?”

“Roderic, this was Magic. Remember the backlash—there may be more to come. I think we would be better off in the hall.”

A frantic servant knocked on the door of the outer chamber, “Lord Prince, Lord Prince. Please come—”

“Here I am, man, I’m here.” He called out as he hugged her closer and pressed a quick kiss on her forehead “Come, I’ll see
you safe to the hall.”

The door opened and the servant peered into the room,
clearly frightened. “Lord Prince—Lord Prince. The Lady Tavia sends you this message. Amanander—”

Fear bolted through Annandale as Roderic looked up. “What about Amanander?”

“He’s gone. Lady Gartred with him. The Lady Jaboa’s dead. And Alexander—”

Annandale listened in horror, half certain of what the hapless servant would say before the words were out of his mouth.

“Alexander lies as Amanander did—in a sleep beyond our reach.”

T
he rising sun cast the courtyards into inky wells of debris and dark piles of haphazard stone. Roderic stared out the windows
of the council chamber, watching the weary stonemasons scramble amidst the rubble at the direction of the captain of the engineers
as they sought to stabilize what little remained of the northern tower. The clear light of morning revealed the extent of
the disaster. Surely months would be required to undo the work of the previous night.

From his litter on the floor beside the council table, Phineas shifted against his pillows.

“Tavia was right,” Roderic said softly, as he turned his back to the window and watched Phineas’s sightless eyes roaming randomly
beneath his papery lids. “I should have killed the bastard when I had the chance at Minnis last summer, instead of letting
him live.” The bitter taste in his mouth had nothing to do with the sleepless night he had just spent.

Once more, Roderic turned to the window and leaned against the glass, staring at the wreckage which filled the inner ward
of Ahga Castle. Never again would the five towers of Ahga rise so proudly against the sky, her square
bulk comforting and reassuring as the power of the Ridenau Kings.

“Roderic.” Phineas’s voice rasped gently behind him, and reluctantly Roderic turned to face the man his father had relied
upon all the years of his reign. “This was not your fault.”

“You don’t know how much I wish I could believe you. The north tower’s in ruins, and parts of the west may be damaged beyond
repair. Every door was ripped off its hinges. In all the confusion, Amanander just walked right out.” He could not hide the
bitter edge of his words. He stalked to stand over the council table, the long plate glass reflecting rainbow prisms in the
early morning light.

“My son—” began the old man, and stopped as someone rapped on the door.

“Yes?” Roderic raised his head, glad that the interruption had prevented the old man offering any more sympathy. This was
his fault—he knew it as surely as he knew his own name. He had not learned to govern the whole of Meriga by shirking his responsibilities.

The door opened slowly, reluctantly, and a tired-looking servant let Annandale precede him into the room. “Lord Prince. Your
lady-wife.”

With a terse wave of his hand, Roderic sent the servant on his way. Annandale closed the door.

“Roderic, I must speak to you.”

Phineas struggled to sit straighter at the sound of her soft voice, and Roderic noted the dark shadows beneath her eyes, the
faint shadows of strain beside her mouth. This was the first time he had ever seen her look so utterly
weary, and instantly he wondered what could have brought her to him at such an hour and at such a time.

“What’s wrong? Are the children all right?”

“Oh, yes. Melisande slept through it all, and Rhodri is fine.” She paused.

“Then go to bed, sweetheart. We can discuss whatever we must later.”

“No, Roderic.” Her voice was firm. She touched Phineas’s shoulder, and the old man took her hand in his gnarled one and pressed
it close. She raised her eyes to Roderic’s. “We’ve seen to Jaboa’s lying-out. A messenger should be sent to Brand at once.
You must make sure to tell him she didn’t suffer.”