Children of Enchantment

by Anne Kelleher Bush

  “Lord Prince.” The old Sergeant’s salute was as crisp as ever.

  “Tell me what happened. How did my sister die?”

  “We don’t rightly know, Lord Prince. We found ‘em all in a camp just near the toll plaza at the outermost boundary of the Ridenau lands. Lord Vere—we didn’t know it was him, sir, until Captain Brand recognized him—he’s bad wounded. The Lady Jesselyn, we found her lying in a pool of her own blood, her throat cut. And the other lady—Lady Tavia—she couldn’t tell us nothing.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, where Peregrine sat spoonfeeding a woman with long dark braids.

  “You’ve no idea who did this?”

  “No, sir. There was nothing to tell us anything. The Captain of the guard at the toll plaza, he was just as horrified as we were. If word gets round the country, he’s like to have a panic on his hands. But the murderers made a real mistake. They left Lord Vere for dead. If he gets better, maybe he can tell you.”

  “What about Tavia?” Roderic looked at Brand.

  Brand averted his eyes. “You’d better come see for yourself.”

  Mystified, Roderic followed his brother to the dais. Peregrine looked up with a troubled expression.

  He bowed to Tavia and extended his hand. As his eyes met hers, his words of welcome died on his lips. The woman who crouched on the low stool stared past and beyond hin, looking into some unseen unknown. She crooned tunelessly under her breath, and her eyes were blank and blue. Her face was pale and unlined, like a child’s, and she clutched a bundle, vaguely shaped like a baby, to her bosom. Her garments were of rough homespun wool, and they stood out around her like bulwarks. “What happened to her?”

  Peregrine glanced at Brand. “Maybe the shock,” she said. “The shock of seeing her sister and her brother murdered.”

  “Then why didn’t whoever it was kill her, too?” asked Roderic.

  “The men say they found her in the wagon, just as you see her. She must have stayed hidden. Even if she knows anything, she’ll never tell us in her present state.” Brand hooked his thumbs in his belt.

  “What about Vere?” Roderic stared at Tavia, trying :o think of some way to penetrate her trance.

  “I think he might recover,” answered Peregrine. “He lost a lot of blood, but no vital organs were injured.”

  “Can he talk?” asked Roderic.

  “He was in a dead faint when they carried him in,” said Brand.

  Roderic pressed through the crowd and knelt on one knee beside Vere’s makeshift bed. The resemblance Vere bore to the King was so stark, his heart leaped. There was the same jutting hawk nose, the high cheekbones. But Vere’s beard obscured the lower half of his face, and blood stained a rough bandage twined around his head. Roderic wondered at the intricate markings Vere wore on his face. He opened his mouth to speak to Brand, and in that moment, Vere’s eyes fluttered open. His mouth moved, and Roderic bent closer. At the name Vere muttered, Roderic fell back.

  “What is it,” asked Brand. “What did he say?”

  Roderic rose to his feet unsteadily and turned away, leaving Vere to the care of the nurses.“Amanandcr,” Roderic said. “That’s what he said. Amanander.”

  “He claims my twin murdered his own sister and tried to murder him?” Alexander’s dark eyes flashed fire, and Roderic was reminded how alike the twins were. The hour was getting on to dusk. At last the hall had been restored to some semblance of order. Jesselyn’s body lay in the little chapel, washed and decently wrapped in a linen winding sheet. Tavia had been led away in Peregrine’s care, and now she sat over Melisande’s cradle, rocking and crooning the same tuneless lullaby, refusing to be moved. Vere had been taken to a bedchamber, where he lay, fading in and out of consciousness. A messenger had been sent back to Ahga to alert Phineas, and another party of soldiers had gone out to ascertain if Amanander were indeed on the road to Dlas.

  Roderic shifted uneasily in his chair. The wounds on his shoulder and upper arm throbbed; in all the confusion, there had been no time to tend them. He had begun to hope that he and Alexander were developing a relationship of mutual respect, and now the accusations of a stranger, whom Brand insisted was their brother, were placing this newfound trust in jeopardy. “Yes,” he said finally. “That’s what he said.”

  Alexander only glared, and Brand swallowed a long quaff of ale. “But why?” asked Brand. “Why would Amanander want to kill Jesselyn and Vere? Even if we believe what Vere says—and perhaps you misunderstood him, Roderic—what could possibly be the reason?”

  Roderic glanced from Brand’s troubled face to Alexander’s angry one. “This wasn’t just a visit. Jesselyn was coming for a reason.”

  “Which was?” demanded Alexander.

  Roderic set his goblet down deliberately before answering.

  “She sent me a letter—it was waiting for me when I got back from Atland. She said she had some crucial information.”

  “About what?” There was a dangerous look in Alexander’s eyes, and Brand drew just a fraction closer to Roderic’s chair.

  “I don’t know.” Roderic felt Brand’s presence and met Alexander’s gaze levelly. “But it would seem that Jesselyn was killed because whoever killed her—and I’m not saying it was Amanander—didn’t want me to have that information.”

  Alexander dropped his eyes. “That makes sense.”

  “Alex,” said Brand, “you’re closer to Aman than any of us. Did he—in any way—hint that he might be planning such a thing? Did you have any idea—“

  “No!” Alexander swung on Brand, hand reaching for a weapon which wasn’t there. Out of the corner of his eye, Roderic saw the soldiers positioned at the door come to attention, instantly alert.

  “Hold, Alexander.” Brand raised his hands. “I want no quarrel with you. But whoever murdered Jesselyn must answer for his crime. Don’t you agree?”

  Slowly, Alexander relaxed. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, turning away. “The idea that Amanander would murder one of his own sisters is not something I care to contemplate.”

  “No,” said Brand. “None of us wants to believe it.”

  Though likely all of us can, thought Roderic.

  “Roderic?” Peregrine’s soft voice interrupted any further conversation. “Vere’s awake.” She stood in the doorway, bloodstains on her white apron. In her arms she held a laundry basket of bloodstained linen. “He’s awake and asking for you.”

  Roderic nodded at both his brothers. “Let’s go.”

  In the sickroom, a fire burned in the hearth, and the windows were open to catch the breeze which ruffled the white curtains. A pot of broth hanging from a little iron tripod bubbled over the fire. A basket of clean bandages and a tray of unguents lay on the table beside the bed. When the men entered, the woman bending over Vere looked up disapprovingly. “You may have a few minutes, Lord Prince. That’s all.” She placed a bowl and spoon on a little tray and carried it out of the room with a loud sniff.

  Roderic was relieved to see how much better Vere seemed. He was propped up against the pillows, and his head was freshly bandaged. He wore a clean white bedgown, and his beard had been trimmed. The varicolored tatoos on his cheeks were the only incongruous note. Vere smiled weakly at the sight of his brothers. “Brand, Alexander. And you—Lord Prince?” His voice was a throaty whisper.

  Roderic strode to the bedside. “Please, call me Roderic. We’re brothers, after all. Can you tell us who did this to you?”

  Vere’s gray-green gaze flicked past Roderic to Alexander and a look of great sadness came into his eyes. “Amanander.”

  “But why?” Alexander pushed past Brand and stood next to Roderic. “Why?”

  Vere shook his head and winced. “Not now—can’t—now. But Jesselyn—he killed her deliberately….” Vere closed his eyes and his face blanched.

  “That’s enough,” said the nurse. She stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips. “All of you, out. Now. He needs rest, or he’ll never be able to tell you what you need to know.”


  Reluctantly, the men filed into the corridor. They stood in awkward silence outside the door. Alexander took a deep breath. “You know I must leave on the morrow, Roderic. But promise you will write to me with Vere’s story—I must know why Amanander would do such a thing.” Beneath his tunic, Alexander’s shoulders seemed to sag. He walked away with the heavy gait of a much older man.

  “Alex.” Roderic reached out and grasped his arm. “I am sorry. I know you love him.”

  Alexander hesitated. Finally, he cleared his throat. “I want you to know I had nothing to do with what Aman did. I realize you may not believe me, but I had no inkling that he would kill anyone.” In the darkened corridor, Alexander looked much older than his thirty-odd years. Deep pockets ringed his eyes, his mouth seemed dragged down by the weight of the lines carved into his face. “The murder of an innocent woman—I cannot condone—“

  “Condone?” Roderic’s voice sounded harsher than he intended. “That’s too soft a word, isn’t it?”

  Alexander raised his head and Roderic saw the misery and the pride in his face. “I never intended to challenge you, Roderic. I do not want to be King.”

  “And Amanander?”

  “I know you expect me to betray my brother—”

  “Amanander must be found and brought back to answer for his crime.”

  “I agree, but—” Alexander hesitated, and Roderic watched the struggle on his face. “You don’t know what you ask of me. He’s more than my brother. I don’t expect you to understand—I don’t expect anyone who’s not a twin to understand—but he’s like an extension of myself. It used to be that I knew what he thought, and how he felt, even when we were apart. I admit I never thought he’d do anything like what he did, but—Roderic, you’re eighteen years old. Can you understand why Amanander believes he should be King?”

  “I’m not the King,” Roderic said softly.

  “No,” Alexander admitted. “Not yet.” He rubbed his temples as though his head ached. “Before I left for the garrison in Spogan, all those years ago, I swore to uphold the kingdom and the King. I don’t know if I can do what you ask of me. If my brother comes to me, I’m not certain I can turn him over to you, even though I agree he should answer for his crime. But I will not give him succor, or aid him in any way, and I will, as much as I am able, assist you to find him.”

  “Alex.” Roderic could not conceal the urgency in his voice. “You’ve got to tell us. Do you know anything about Amanander’s plans? Anything at all?”

  Alexander closed his eyes. “I can offer you no more.”

  “And in return for your help in finding Amanander?”

  Alexander looked at the floor and then at Roderic. “I believe a man should do what is right without a price. What my brother has done is heinous.” He shook his head. Roderic had never seen such agony in a man’s eyes. “I can offer you no more.”

  Abruptly Alexander turned on his heel and strode away. Roderic started after him, but Brand stopped him with a touch.

  “He knows something,” Roderic insisted. “He knows more than he’s telling us.”

  “I know,” said Brand. “But let him go. He may not be a friend, but he’s no enemy. We’ll have to content ourselves with that for now.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Five days passed, days in which Roderic watched Vere struggle for his life. Although at first he had thought Vere not badly injured, Peregrine changed his mind, when she described the severity of Vere’s wounds. But Vere seemed to heal quickly, much faster than Peregrine or anyone else expected. Roderic hoped he would be able to talk to him at length soon.

  On a cool morning, after the brief service held for Jesselyn, Roderic and Brand watched as the plain coffin was placed on a cart. Her body was to be taken to Ahga, to be interred in the crypts which held the bones of the Ridenau ancestors. As the little procession trundled through the arched gateway, Roderic drew a deep breath. He was sad to think that he would never know Jesselyn, but he was more troubled by the circumstances of her death. “I’ve decided to summon the court to Minnis,” he said without preamble. “After all, it’s almost time for the court to come anyway. And I’d like Phineas to hear what Vere has to say. Vere won’t be able to travel for some time, I think.”

  “Perhaps,” said Brand, “we ought to go back.”

  “But Vere—“

  “Vere is not your only responsibility.”

  Roderic shot a quick look at his brother. Brand’s eyes were fastened on the dust cloud raised by the funeral procession.

  He knew Jesselyn, thought Roderic. She was not just a name to him. He bit back the retort.

  “Lord Prince,” a maidservant interrupted the awkward silence. “Lady Peregrine sent me to fetch you. Lord Vere is awake and insists that he must speak with you.”

  Roderic tapped Brand’s arm. There wouldn’t be any point in quarreling with this brother whom both his father and Phineas trusted so much. “Come. Let’s go.”

  In Vere’s room, the windows were thrown open to let in the fresh air. A faint smudge barely visible above the tops of the ancient trees of the Great North Woods was the dark tower where the witch-woman Nydia was reputed to live, and Roderic was reminded once more of Amanander’s queries about the fate of the witch.

  They found Vere sitting in a chair by the window, shaking his head at a nurse, who was insisting that he be covered with a wrap. As Roderic and Brand entered, Vere held up his hands in mock surrender. “Peace, I beg of you! I’ll cover up, I promise. Only leave me alone, mistress—your fussing will be the death of me long before the wind.”

  Muttering dire predictions, the woman left the room shaking her head at male stubbornness. Vere smiled at them beneath his beard. “Spare me from the good intentions of capable women.”

  “You look better, Vere.” Roderic noted that his brother’s color was much better, although he still seemed painfully thin, his shoulders knobby beneath the fine-spun linen of his bedgown. He tried not to stare at the intricate swirls of color on Vere’s cheeks.

  “I am better.” Vere knotted his slender fingers in his lap and turned his head to look out the window, where the branches of the closest tree brushed the casement, twisted with the first pale flowers of the purple delvines. From the courtyard came the muted sounds of the garrison guard at their drills. The scent of the flowers wafted in on the breeze. “Better than I was when Amanander’s men left me. They came in the night. We had no chance. They slit Jesselyn’s throat, and thought to have cut mine as well.”

  “Why do you think it was Amanander’s men?” Brand stroked his chin as he leaned against the bedpost.

  “I saw him. He did not do the killing—he stood apart, silent. His arms were folded across his chest, and the wind whipped his cloak around his shoulders. He did not move— he did not even seem to breathe—his stillness was unnatural.” Vere stared out the window, as if seeing it happen ones again.

  “It was dark,” said Brand. “Could you be mistaken?”

  Vere turned to look at his brother, and in the arch of his brow, the proud lift of his head, Roderic saw again the clear stamp of Abelard Ridenau. “There was no mistake.”

  “This has something to do with the information Jesselyn was bringing me, doesn’t it?” asked Roderic.

  Vere nodded. “Unquestionably.”

  “Do you know what that information was?”

  Vere hesitated. “I will tell you what I can. But you must understand that I am bound by other vows—vows from which I have not been released—“

  “If this has to do with Dad—” began Brand, crossing his arms over his chest. His dark brows knitted in a frown, and he lowered his head like an angry bull.

  Vere shook his head. “I am not sure that it does.”

  “You must tell us everything,” Roderic sat down opposite Vere and crossed his long legs at the knee.

  “I will tell you what I can.” There was a quiet note in Vere’s voice which brooked no argument. “I am a tracker—there is no need for y
ou to understand exactly what that is—suffice it for me to say that I have spent the greater part of the last years searching out ancient knowledge among old ruins. What I have found is of no concern to you, either, except that as I have traveled, I have also been searching for the whereabouts of a renegade Muten named Ferad-lugz.”

  Brand shook his head impatiently. “And what does any of this have to do with Amanander?”

  Roderic took a deep breath and leaned forward. “This is no time for secrets if the safety of this realm is at stake.”

  “I will tell you what I can,” Vere repeated. “Many years ago, Dad quarreled with his mother, Agara, and banished her from Ahga.”

  “Why?” asked Roderic.

  “I can tell you that,” said Brand. “The quarrel concerned the succession. She was determined that Amanander should be King after Abelard. He refused to name Amanander his heir—he was concerned that any son other than that of his Queen would be questioned by the Congress. Although Amanander’s mother was contracted to marry Dad, she died before the actual ceremony could take place. And therein lies the problem—in some of the estates, a contracted marriage is as valid as an actual marriage, and in some of them, it isn’t. You must remember that Dad came to the throne in the middle of a struggle with the Congress over the unity of the realm, and in Mortmain’s Rebellion, the entire western section of the country tried to establish a separate kingdom. So Dad was afraid that if he named Amanander his heir, and then had a son by his Queen, too many in the Congress would support Amanander, and once again, there’d be the threat of a division. So Agara took Amanander and Alexander with her when she left, and together they went to Missiluse, to Eldred, Agara’s cousin, and Dad’s old enemy.”

  “It was while they were there—” Vere spoke up when Brand paused “—that Agara became involved with this Muten—Ferad-lugz, he was called—because she wanted to learn to work the Old Magic.”

  “Old Magic?” echoed Roderic. “Is such a thing possible?”