Children of Enchantment

by Anne Kelleher Bush

  “You do good work, Jessie.” For another long moment there was silence, while they sipped their cider, and the fire burned merrily in the hearth. He poked at the logs with a long iron. “Better open that message while I’m here. I’ll take it with me if needs be when I leave in the morning.”

  With a start, she set her cup on the floor and pulled the packet from the pocket of her gown. In the confines of the room it stank of a sick man’s sweat. Gingerly, she unwrapped it and removed several sheets of parchment. She leaned forward and read it with growing disbelief.

  “Well?” Everard asked finally.

  She held it out to him. He glanced at the parchment and shook his head. “You know I don’t read Muten, Jessie.”

  “No,” she said, beginning to tremble. “But look at the signature. It’s from Vere.”

  “Vere?” Everard turned the parchment over. “I always wondered if that’s where the poor bastard had gone when he disappeared all those years ago, during Mortmain’s Rebellion. You were probably too little to remember—“

  “I remember Tavia telling me, when I’d got a little older.”

  “So what does it say? Who’s it addressed to?”

  Jesselyn took the sheets back from Everard and peered at them with a wrinkled brow. “It’s addressed to the Council of the Elders—the Pr’fessors—at the College.”

  “Vere moves in high circles.”

  “Indeed. This messenger was to take this to their place of exile—do you know where that is?”

  Everard only shook his head.

  “Let me see—it says—‘To my brothers and sisters of the Council, I send greetings and the urgent wish that the recent unrest among the Lesser Children has not affected the tranquility of your lives. I fear this message will have just that effect. I believe I have found the traitor, Ferad-lugz, in the deep desert of Dlas-for’Torth. Our fears are justified that he has continued in the study of the Magic and at this moment poses a greater threat not only to the Ruling Council and the Children, but to the whole of Meriga itself. Despite the uncertainties of the present situation, I am sending my servant to you in the hope that you, having taken counsel, will be able to advise what the next course of action should be. I intend to follow my servant. However, due to the current troubles, my arrival may be delayed. May the Power which orders the Universe keep you in care. Vere.’ “

  Jesselyn looked up and stared at Everard. “We must see that the Elders receive this.”

  “Is it dated?”

  She turned the thick parchment over. “Febry first. Do you think that you will be able to find a way to get this to them?”

  “I hope so. But you’d better make a copy. The Elders aren’t the only ones who must know what this message says.”

  At that she looked up, a question clear in her blue eyes.

  “Roderic must know, Jessie,” Everard said, trying to answer. “If this is something that may affect the whole of Meriga—“

  “Bah!” She turned away, nearly crumpling the worn parchment in her hand. “Do you know what they call him? The Children, I mean? They call him the Butcher.”

  “Jessie—no matter what might have happened, he is, or will be very shortly, the acknowledged Regent of all Meriga—“

  “And a fine beginning he’s had. Have you heard the tale first-hand? I have, Everard, and it still makes my stomach churn. I see those poor creatures in my dreams—he ordered the skin peeled from their bodies—limbs hacked off slowly with blunted blades—how can you even stand the thought that he is your brother?”

  Everard was silent. He got to his feet, poured more cider, and leaned against the hearth. “Perhaps the tales are exaggerated.”

  “That’s what I wanted to think—until I met one of those who was there and was spared. Roderic may be the Regent of all Meriga, but he’s no man—“

  “You’re right, Jessie. He’s a boy—an eighteen-year-old boy faced with one of the largest rebellions in living history, and Dad gone. I’m not excusing what he did in Atland, I’m only saying that perhaps it was understandable under the circumstances.”

  “Are you saying we should try to understand slaughter?”

  Everard sighed. “I don’t expect you to understand—”

  “Oh, spare me the helpless woman lecture.” She got to her feet and paced beside the fire.

  “Have you forgotten that Dad disappeared somewhere in Arkan? That’s close enough to Dlas to make me think that perhaps this Ferad had a hand in Dad’s disappearance.”

  She paused and could not meet his eyes. “No. I didn’t think of that.”

  “Then this is not just a matter for the Elders. This is a matter for Roderic, as Regent, and his advisors, if not the entire Congress.” When Jesselyn was silent, he continued, “I’ll take this message. I’ll try to deliver it. But I think you must go to Ahga.”

  At that she stared at Everard in disbelief. “Are you mad? I can’t go to Ahga. I’m under interdict—the Bishop will have me taken before the Council of Bishops and even Dad wouldn’t be able to protect me. There’s no way—“

  “There must be a way, Jessie.”

  “Why can’t you go to Ahga?”

  “I’m on my way to Atland. Phineas contacted me and asked if I would assist Reginald in administering the terms of the peace.”

  “Assist? You mean make sure he doesn’t break his word. He’s another in the same mold as Roderic—even though I’ll grant you I’ve never heard he’s ever done anything quite so bad. But none of the Children trust Reginald.”

  Everard motioned her to sit. “It’s not just Reginald. The Senador in Atland is old, and Phineas is counting on me to deal with the lesser lords—the Mayhers and Govners. Reginald’s not much of a diplomat. So you see I can’t go back to Ahga. I’ll make sure the message reaches the Elders, but you must go to Roderic.”

  “Couldn’t someone else take the message? What about Phillip?” Even as she spoke, Jesselyn realized that Everard spoke the truth. Phillip was probably in Ahga already, and if the message truly was as urgent as Vere implied, there was no time to find out. And who else could be trusted? “Who is this Ferad-lugz?”

  Everard shook his head, smiling as he acknowledged her capitulation. “I’ve no idea. I’ve never heard the name before, but that’s not really surprising. You know a lot goes on at the College among the Pr’fessors that no one knows about, or understands. It’s enough for me that Vere mentions the Old Magic, and the fact that this Ferad-lugz is a traitor to them. That could only mean one thing. Ferad’s attempting to use the Magic for his own ends, whatever they may be. And think about it, Jessie. Think about what that could mean for all of us.”

  Jesselyn sighed. She walked to the window and stared out into the dark night. She could hear the slow beat of the hidebound drums as the Mutens mourned the dead messenger, and the old glass felt cool beneath her cheek. “What if I just wrote a letter?”

  “Stubborn, aren’t you? I wouldn’t suggest anyone cross these mountains if it weren’t necessary. But the Mutens do know and respect you—where they won’t one of my messengers—and the human population will respect you as a priest, while they most assuredly would not a Muten. If you think you’d have trouble getting into Ahga, what sort of difficulty do you think one of the Children would have? And besides, you aren’t just one of the Bishop’s minion priests—you’re a Princess of the royal blood. You have every right to go to Ahga. If you notify Roderic that you are on your way, surely he’ll send an escort for you.”

  “I’d have to bring Tavia. There’s no one who can handle her as I do, and she won’t let me out of her sight on her bad days.”

  “How is Tavia? I didn’t see her at dinner.”

  “Today was one of the bad days. After what she’s been through, I can’t say I blame her. But I can’t leave her.”

  “Then you may well have to take her with you. Have you ever thought that a trip back to Ahga might do her good? I would go if I thought I could, Jessie. But the peace in Atland is too tenuous. I w
ould not like to think those poor wretches died in vain.” For a moment his shoulders seemed to sag and his eyes lost their customary gleam. “Under any other circumstances, I’d take the message to Roderic myself.”

  “You think you could stand his presence?”

  “I’m sworn to go if he summons me.”

  “But—“

  Everard held up his hand. “Peace, Jessie. He’s the Regent. We’re all sworn to obey him.”

  “I’m not.” Jesselyn folded her arms and leaned her cheek against the cool glass. “I’m not, nor will I ever swear anything to him or to any man.”

  Everard nodded and drew a long breath. “Forgive me for saying so, Jess, but it strikes me you always were a trifle loose about keeping vows.” He gave her a brief bow, stalked to the door, and yanked it open. Speechless, she watched as he nearly tripped over a small figure huddled by the door. “What are you doing?” Everard hauled the figure up by the scruff of the neck, and Jesselyn realized with another shock that Sera must have overheard their entire conversation.

  “Sera. Why are you here?”

  “My turn to serve, Rever’d Lady.” The Muten cringed, holding up her scarf to hide her face.

  Everard set her down, though none too gently. He let out a long sigh of relief. “Go on, get about your work.” He turned back to Jesselyn as Sera scurried away. “Please. Jessie. Please do as I ask.”

  Silently, Jesselyn nodded, wondering why she felt she ought to follow Sera into the dark night.

  Chapter Seven

  At noon on the last day of March, Roderic, followed by his brothers Brand and Amanander, crossed the lowered drawbridge, and guided his tired horse through the ancient towers of the gates, into the first ward of Ahga Castle. Behind him, the weary army tramped through the winding streets lined with a subdued crowd of citizens. Sitting straight in the saddle, wearing his battle-scarred leather armor, Roderic met their grim expressions as evenly as he could. He did not blame the people. Their King, the man they had cherished and cheered and supported, with their blood and their gold and their own hopes and dreams, for more than forty years was gone. And yet there was no concrete finality of death—he had simply vanished, snatched away by some enemy even he had not had the foresight to anticipate. No wonder the people of Ahga were frightened. The heavy supply wagons lurched across the uneven pavestones, the low rumbling of their wheels the only chorus of welcome in those silent streets.

  As they emerged from the shadow of the gatehouse into the outer ward of the great keep, Roderic looked up to see the entire household waiting on the steps which led into the inner ward. Above him, the great stables rose ten stories, with grooms and stable boys assembled on the rising curve of the entrance ramp. A long line of soldiers in the uniform of the King’s Guard snapped to attention. A cheer rang out from the household, loud and welcoming, and behind him, he heard the flap of a standard. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a blue, white-bordered pennant, emblazoned with the eagle of Meriga as it fluttered to the top of the gatehouse: his own standard, announcing to the world that the heir of Meriga was once more in residence. He realized with a start that for the first time his colors would tly alone above Ahga. He drew the reins, and a stable boy ran forward. With a tired smile, Roderic relinquished the horse to the boy. “My thanks,” he murmured, beneath the cheers.

  The boy ducked his head in an awkward, embarrassed bow and led the horse away. As other boys ran forward to take the reins from Brand, Amanander, and the officers of the regiments, Roderic tugged his tunic into place and threw his cloak over one shoulder. He was home, at last. But how different was this homecoming from what he had imagined on that autumn day when he had ridden off to war with Abelard’s blessings ringing in his ears, his hand still tingling from the strength of Abelard’s clasp. He did not return the favored son, the cherished heir. Now, he was the master of the massive structure which rose around them all, the highest towers soaring twenty-five impossible floors above the ground. And although he had known the day was coming, when all of Meriga would be his, somehow it had always seemed a part of some far-off, distant future, which even his imagination could not quite encompass.

  He started forward, aware that he would be expected to assume his father’s place immediately and wondering if he would have to answer for his actions in Atland to his father’s council. He shifted his broadsword across his back, searching the crowd for some glimpse of Peregrine. He saw Garrick, smiling broadly, Jaboa, her face soft with welcome, her eyes fastened on Brand.

  In the center of the top step which led into the castle proper, Gartred, the King’s Consort, held the gold welcome cup, steaming with spices, in her hands. Phineas lay on his litter at her side, his lids closed over his sightless eyes, his scarred hands plucking restlessly at the blanket which covered him from chest to feet.

  As Roderic reached the bottom of the shallow steps, the entire household bowed and curtseyed and Gartred raised the golden goblet. “Welcome home, Lord Prince.” Her husky voice was a low murmur, and he had to bend closer to hear her. “I trust your journey was easy.” She bowed her head, and her lowered lashes were dark crescents against her creamy cheeks. A scent, as heady as twice-fermented wine, rose from her skin. As he reached for the cup, the tips of their fingers brushed. He looked down and noticed that she wore a dark red gown cut so low that the tops of her areolas were visible. Automatically, he averted his eyes and scanned the women near her for Peregrine.

  Gartred rose from her curtsey and caught his eyes once more, as though she knew whom he sought. “You look well, Lord Prince.”

  Her mouth was very full and very red, and a rope of pearls nestled in the hollow of her bosom. Despite his discomfort, his attention was diverted by the blatant display. “Thank you, lady,” he managed, and he gulped the wine so clumsily that a little spilled over the edge, and one bloodred drop ran down the side.

  She caught the drop with one long finger as it edged down the curve of the cup. Deliberately, a little smile lacing the corners of her mouth, she licked her finger with the very tip of her tongue.

  Beside Roderic, Brand coughed. Roderic passed the cup to his brother and bowed. “Thank you,” he said again, a little perplexed by her overt suggestiveness. The consort was twenty years or more his senior and, until this moment, had never behaved as though he were worthy of her notice. He stepped past her, glancing through the crowd once more, and finally paused in front of Phineas’s litter. “Lord Phineas,” he said with a heavy sigh.

  “Roderic.” Although the body was frail and the face scarred with old wounds, the voice was the same as he remembered— the voice of a man who knew his words would be obeyed without question. There was another tone, an undercurrent, as though Phineas struggled to speak over some emotion he could not quite suppress. “Welcome home, Lord Prince.”

  “I’m glad to be home.” It was the first time Phineas had ever addressed him by the title of the heir of Meriga. Roderic paused, wishing he could throw himself on the old man’s chest and bury his face in the blankets, as he had when he was very small and his tutors had seemed so harsh. He remembered the dream of his father. “I wish it were under happier circumstances. There’s been no word, no sign, of Dad?”

  “We must talk as soon as you are settled.”

  “As you say, Lor—“

  “At your convenience, Lord Prince,” Phineas interrupted gently, and with those words, Roderic understood just how truly different everything was.

  He looked around. Brand was enveloped in his wife’s embrace, the other officers surrounded by wives and children and friends. The courtyard was completely crowded now, men and horses and wagons all milling in organized confusion.

  Garrick pressed forward, reaching for his hand. “Welcome home, Lord Prince. You look as if campaigning agreed with you.”

  Roderic’s words of welcome faded as he stared at his tutor. Had he grown so much over the winter? Garrick seemed smaller, thinner, as though in the months of Roderic’s absence, the tutor
had somehow shrunk. Only his iron gray beard was the same, closely clipped about his mouth and chin with the old military precision. “I’m glad to see you, Garrick,” he managed. He glanced away, into the crowd, and saw Amanander deep in conversation with a Senador. “Garrick, isn’t that Harland of Missiluse?”

  Garrick followed Roderic’s line of vision. “Indeed it is. Those two spell trouble. And only yesterday Phineas got word that Alexander is on his way and expects to be here in time for the Convening.”

  As they watched, Harland drew Amanander apart, listening, with an inscrutable expression on his face. Amanander looked up just as Roderic glanced in his direction. Their eyes met and held, and Roderic was the first to break the contact. As he looked away, he saw Amanander smile.

  Gartred materialized out of the crowd, blocking Roderic’s path into the castle. “Allow me to show you to your chambers, Lord Prince. There’ve been many changes while you were away—I had them completely redone. In keeping with your new status, of course.” She seized Roderic’s arm. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the swirl of a forest green gown, and he craned his head, hoping to see Peregrine. He was disappointed when he realized it was only a serving maid, who curtseyed and simpered in response.

  The household pressed upon him, men and women of all ranks bowing and murmuring words of welcome, and Gartred pulled him forward, his upper arm held hard against her breast, her perfume as insistent as her flesh.

  At last they stood before the door of the chambers which had been his since birth, in the eastern tower which faced the sea. Gartred looked up at him with a smile, her eyes long and slanting, and Roderic suppressed a shudder. Her expression made him feel as if he were a choice cut of meat on a platter. She stepped aside and let him pass.