Children of Enchantment

by Anne Kelleher Bush

  Annandale gasped, a deep sobbing breath that caught in her throat, and Roderic softened unexpectedly. Whatever machinations had taken place between the witch and his father, this girl seemed as innocent as he, and the witch’s claim that Amanander would have any interest in the girl was enough to make him determined to get answers. And if the only way to get them was from Phineas, so be it. “Come.” He pulled her to her feet and propelled her past the witch. “Now.”

  She stumbled beside him, tears streaming down her cheeks, stopping to glance behind, as though she didn’t quite believe even as it happened that her mother would send her away. At the bottom of the wide steps, the horses stood as they had been left, but they, too, were dry. “Open the doors,” Roderic ordered Barran.

  Annandale bolted from his grasp. “Mother!” She stared up at the figure which crouched at the top of the steps like a fat spider, her arm stretched out in supplication.

  Roderic extended his hand to draw her away, when Nydia spoke once more, and in the faltering voice, Roderic heard what could only be sobs. “Child, you know this is not of my choosing. Look for me in your heart—the bond between us can be broken only by death.”

  “Promise me, Mother.” Annandale’s voice broke over the last word. “Promise you will not use the Magic against yourself—“

  “My time is finished, daughter. Let me go in peace.”

  Stricken, Annandale stared at the figure above her. “Promise me!”

  “How can I raise my hand against myself, child? Don’t you think I, of all people, have learned that the will of the One is not to be gainsaid?”

  There was a silence, and finally, Annandale turned away. Once outside, Roderic lifted her up and placed her on his saddle. He swung onto the horse behind her. “Now which way?” he asked less to Barran than to himself.

  The girl before him roused with a soft sigh of resignation, and so deep a pang went through Roderic, he frowned, wondering why he should feel her pain as if it were his. “Minnis is this way,” said Annandale. She shrank against Roderic’s chest as they once more rode into the forest.

  “Stay close and go slowly,” Roderic said. The sleet had softened into a light rain, but night was falling. The sky was dark and the wind cold. Annandale put her hand upon the reins and guided the beast through the darkening forest, and the falling rain, back to the walls of Minnis Saul.

  Her body was pressed against his, hip to hip, thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder in the saddle, and even as they rode through the wet dusk, a curious warmth gradually spread throughout his whole body, so that soaked to the skin as he soon was, he was as comfortable as if they rode at noon in summer.

  Chapter Sixteen

  When they reached Minnis, grooms gathered quickly to help them down out of the saddles and into dry shelter. Roderic stalked across the courtyard, into the main hall, with Annandale at his heels, noting from the wagons crowded into the courtyard, and the increased number of people, that the court had arrived in his absence.

  “I want Phineas,” Roderic said to the first person he met.

  “At once, Lord Prince,” the servant replied.

  Roderic looked around for Peregrine. “Get the Lady Peregrine now,” he ordered another.

  “As you say, Lord Prince.”

  He looked down at Annandale, standing wet and still in her tattered rags. She was looking around the hall with great interest, and he realized she had probably never seen so many people in one place before. Fleetingly, he wondered what she would think of Ahga. Roderic frowned as she looked up. “Don’t move.” He was gruffer than he intended, and he saw hurt flicker across her face.

  “Lord Phineas will receive you whenever you wish, Lord Prince.” The first servant bowed. Close behind, came Peregrine.

  “Roderic! We’ve been so worried.” She flung her arms around him. Roderic pulled her arms away from his neck and indicated Annandale with a nod.

  “See to the girl.”

  Peregrine looked at Annandale in amazement. She was a ridiculous and pathetic sight in her wet rags. “Who—”

  “Never mind. Find her something dry to wear, feed her if she wants to be fed. And give her a place to sleep.”

  Peregrine stared.

  “I am going to change my clothes and then I will be with Phineas. You may send a tray to me there.”

  “As you say, Lord Prince.”

  Roderic left them, changed in his chambers, and went to Phineas. He pounded on the door, and an astonished servant opened almost immediately.

  “Lord Prince?”

  “Phineas,” he pushed past the servant. “Phineas!”

  “Roderic, what’s happened?” The old man was lying in his bed, sheets drawn up to his chin, thin wisps of gray hair fanned out across the linen pillow.

  “I want answers and I want them now, and you will not try to cajole me.”

  “Roderic, what’s wrong?”

  “The high tower north of here? Do you know it?”

  “Know it?”

  “The witch there knows you. She told me to ask you why I must marry her daughter.”

  “What happened today?”

  Roderic paced back and forth by the side of his bed. He had never been so angry. “I went there today. We were caught in the storm, and by the work of some demon, we ended up on her doorstep. Barran was badly injured, and we sought shelter. And so I met the witch. She told me I must marry her daughter. She wouldn’t let me leave until I promised to take her with me—“

  “She’s here?”

  “Yes, she’s here. That—that—monster wouldn’t let me leave without her. What is she?”

  “What do you mean? The witch—“

  “I want the truth, Phineas. What is she?”

  “She possesses the knowledge of the Magic of Old Meriga. But the daughter is here?”

  “With Peregrine.”

  Roderic stopped pacing and stared as Phineas turned his head into the pillow. He watched as slow tears leaked from Phineas’s ruined eyes and dripped onto the linen. “It is true, then,” the old man muttered. “It will be as she foretold.”

  Roderic touched Phineas’s shoulder and felt the thin, brittle bones beneath the woolen bedgown. “What are you talking about?”

  “It is true, Roderic.” Phineas raised his tear-streaked face. “You must marry this girl. She is the bride your father intended for you.”

  “That cannot be.”

  He shook his head. “It does not matter that you do not believe. Roderic, there is a letter for you among my private papers. Your father wrote it for you the day you were born, and told me to see you received it on the day this girl came to you. Let me send it to your chamber. It will take my servant some time to find it.”

  Roderic drew a deep breath and rubbed his hand across his face. “My father arranged this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is this what you meant when you said the subject of my marriage would have to wait? Why didn’t you tell me then? Why have I known nothing about this?”

  “It did not seem as if the time were right to tell you. These last months have been so fraught with peril, and with everything else—I did not know the time or the manner of her coming.”

  Roderic hit the bedpost with his fist and the whole frame shuddered. “I cannot believe this would be wise, Phineas, for me to marry a—a ragged outcast of some inhuman monster.”

  “Read the letter, Roderic. Perhaps it will tell you what you wish to know.”

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  “Then you must make your own decision based on what you believe best.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I know that the King wanted you to marry her. I know that the King wanted her son to follow you to his throne.”

  Roderic had no answer. He stalked away to his chambers to eat the food Peregrine sent, and to wait upon the letter his father had written. The storm was finally over, and the sky was clear. He saw the stars through his window, opened the casement and leaned out.


  The wind once more blew gently from the east, and slow drops fell from the eaves with a gentle tap-tap to the ground. The leaves whispered and rustled in the night air, and the peace which lay upon the land was at painful contrast to the war which raged within his heart.

  “Roderic?” Peregrine startled him and he jumped. “Forgive me, is everything all right?”

  “What do you want?”

  “What happened today?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “You seem angry.”

  “I am angry.”

  “Who is that girl?”

  Roderic laughed sharply, shortly. “If Phineas is to be believed, she is my bride. The next Queen of all Meriga.”

  “That waif? She—she doesn’t even have clothes on her back—who is she?”

  “What will it matter?”

  “Roderic, I don’t understand—“

  “You don’t understand—hah. Do you think I do?”

  “But where does she come from?”

  “From the halls of hell.”

  “Roderic, you aren’t making any sense.”

  “If it’s sense you want, get out.”

  “Why are you angry at me?”

  He was sorry, then, and held out his hand. “Forgive me. It’s not your fault. It has nothing to do with you.”

  She took his hand, and he pulled her close. “I was frightened for you out in that storm,” she said. “I was so worried.”

  “Were you?” He pulled her hips against his and loosened the pins which bound her hair. It fell in a heavy dark brown mass down her shoulders and her back, and he twined his hand in it and pressed it against his lips. She wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned into him. He bent his head and kissed her long and slowly. Her mouth opened and her breath was sweet, her lips soft and willing. “Are you finished for the evening?” he asked against her ear.

  “Yes.”

  “How convenient.” He kissed her mouth again. They sprang apart at a knock upon the outer door. “What is it?”

  “Lord Phineas sends you this letter, Lord Prince,” was the reply.

  “Leave it on my desk,” he said.

  “Is it important?” Peregrine asked as he drew her to him once more.

  “Not as important as this.” He caressed her breasts through the fabric of her clothes. She closed her eyes and moaned softly.

  “Is it about the girl?”

  “What girl?”

  “The one you brought.”

  “Forget her. She’s not important, either.” He led Peregrine to the bed and they left their clothes in heaps on the floor. When they were naked and he ran his hand up her thigh, something curious happened. He remembered the feeling of Annandale’s arm beneath his hand in the tower room of the witch, so clearly that it might have been her flesh he touched.

  He froze. Peregrine stretched beneath him like a cat, drew her hands across his shoulders and caressed the muscles of his upper arms. He bore down upon her, and the memory of Annandale’s body pressed against his in the saddle intensified and blotted out Peregrine.

  She whimpered, guided his hand to her breast and pressed the palm into her flesh. He bent his head, took her nipple between his teeth and listened to her make soft sounds as she writhed against his hips. He nuzzled the soft skin of her throat as he eased into her, and a vision of Annandale’s face, exquisite in its symmetry, filled his mind. As he gave himself up to the driving rhythm of lovemaking, the woman beneath him had eyes of drowning blue, and a body which sent waves of heat through him. And as his body shuddered in its final release, the woman who clasped his hips with her thighs was not the woman whose name he bit back from his lips.

  In the early morning, before the first light, Roderic woke from a deep sleep and went immediately to his desk. He lit a candle and saw the envelope with his father’s thick scrawl. He hesitated, then picked it up. The paper was yellow with age. He broke the King’s seal and opened it.

  It was dated the day of his birth.

  The salutation said, “My son.”

  A chill swept down his spine as he looked at the handwriting, so familiar, written so long ago. He read it in disbelief.

  My son—

  You lie in your cradle not 12 hours old, and your mother lies on her bier. She died to give you life, but you are strong and healthy. Word has reached me from the forests of Minnis Saul that this day another child was born. She will be your bride in the fullness of time. Much was risked to bring the two of you to birth, and much will depend upon the two of you. If Phineas has given you this letter, I must believe that you are King, bound only by the law of Meriga and the good of the realm. Her name is Annandale, and her mother is Nydia of the Tower of Minnis Saul. I hope and pray that you decide to marry her, for the fate of all Meriga and all that I have lived my life for depends upon the decision which you must make. I cannot imagine under what circumstances you are reading this. I only ask that you believe me when I tell you this is perhaps the most important decision you must make, and I bid you choose as I would wish.

  The letter was signed with his father’s signature, bold and unmistakable. Roderic sat down in the chair. The fire had died down in the night and he threw another log on the hearth.

  “Roderic?” Peregrine stood in the doorway, wrapped in a sheet.

  He held out his arms and she snuggled on his lap. He held up the letter. ‘This doesn’t answer anything.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a letter from my father, written on the day I was born, for me to read in the event of his death.”

  “What does it say?”

  “My father wants me to marry her.”

  Peregrine sat up. “Well, who is she?”

  “Her name is Annandale. Her mother’s name is Nydia— she’s the one who lives in the high tower north of here.”

  “The witch.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you going to do what the King wants?”

  He pressed her back against his shoulder and buried his face in her hair. The fragrance of apple blossoms filled his nostrils. “I don’t know.”

  “You mean you’ll consider it?”

  “I have to consider it. My father wants me to marry her. He makes it clear that it’s my decision, but he says—here, I’ll read it to you. ‘The fate of all Meriga depends upon the decision which you must make.“ Now. What does that mean? And then there’s—” He stopped. He wasn’t sure what had happened yesterday. The visions the witch had shown him were fading like a half-remembered dream.

  “When will this happen?”

  He tilted her chin and looked into her dark eyes. “Peregrine, does this grieve you?”

  She shifted her eyes and bit her lower lip. “I knew you would marry someday.”

  “But?”

  “It doesn’t make me happy to think this must end.”

  “Surely there have been others. Perhaps one will even do for a husband—my father would want—“

  “No. There’ve been no others.”

  “Why not? We’ve sworn no vows. I thought surely—”

  “No. No others.”

  “But—“

  She pressed her face into his chest and he thought he felt her tears. When she looked up, her eyes were wet. “I wanted—I thought—if I bore a child, I wanted it to be yours, not another’s.”

  “Peregrine.” He had no other answer. He rocked her in his arms. “Do you want to return to your home? If you want to leave, I understand. Perhaps Jaboa could take over—” He felt the words like the sting of a whip, even as they left his lips, and he knew he’d said the wrong thing.

  He felt her stiffen and the tears spilled out and ran down her face. “You’re thinking of replacing me already? Is that what you want? I thought my home was here.”

  “No. No, that’s not what I want. I want you to stay with me, but I don’t want you to be hurt. You know that when I marry I must take a vow of fidelity until my heir is either born or named.”

  “So whe
n will you marry this short-skirted witch-spawn?”

  “I must marry someday.”

  “And her?”

  “I must do what I believe to be best for the realm.”

  “And is she best?”

  “I don’t know.” Me looked her full in the eyes. “You’re very important to me, and nothing will change that. If we should have a son, it’s possible I could name him my heir, but—“

  “But we have no son—only Melisande, and if you marry this—” She stopped. “I will try not to interfere in this.”

  He was torn and confused. He loved Peregrine as friend and companion, and he had no wish to lose her, or to cause her pain. He wanted to assure her that nothing would change, but the memory of last night’s lovemaking stopped the words in his throat, and he felt drawn to the stranger like a salmon to the river that spawned it.

  So he kissed her because he did not know what else to do, and he carried her back to bed. He tried to remember how his father had handled the numerous women who had borne him children, and he realized with a glum sense of dread that he did not know. So he went through what he hoped were appropriate motions, and all the while, he was haunted by the specter of Peregrine’s grief.

  Chapter Seventeen

  He could not sleep again after that. He rose as the light changed from gray to gold and tucked the covers carefully around Peregrine’s sleeping body. He dressed in the clothes he had worn yesterday. Except for smudges and creases, nothing suggested his ordeal. He picked up his boots and carried them to the outer room and sat in the chair to pull them on.

  The hair prickled at the back of his neck as he looked at first one, and then the other. They were his oldest boots, scuffed at the heels, the stitching pulled loose and the leather almost worn through at the toes. He ran his fingers slowly over the surface. The boots were whole, as they had been when new. The stitching was perfectly in place, the leather across the toes as thick as when it was first cut. It was not even as if some master had mended them, for while human hands could have replaced the stitching, they could never have fabricated leather where it had been worn away.